Greasy Meatball

I've been making a concerted effort to spend more time at home in a state of boredom. In my aresenal of things I contemplate and regularly discuss is the "we need to be bored" speech. Without this time without input I don't think the creative self can thrive and yet I find myself going to and from work with headphones on doing the crossword, at home with a drink and talking on the phone, staying up all night to play with the computer.

Then I read this poem.

The Art of Disappearing by Naomi Shihab Nye.

When they say Don't I know you? say no.
When they invite you to the party
remember what parties are like
before answering.
Someone telling you in a loud voice
they once wrote a poem.
Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate.
Then reply.
If they say we should get together.
say why? It's not that you don't love them any more.
You're trying to remember something
too important to forget.
Trees.
The monastery bell at twilight.
Tell them you have a new project.
It will never be finished. When someone recognizes you in a grocery store
nod briefly and become a cabbage.
When someone you haven't seen in ten years
appears at the door,
don't start singing him all your new songs.
You will never catch up.
Walk around feeling like a leaf. Know you could tumble any second. Then decide what to do with your time.

It may be tacky to post it. I found it in a book on someone else's bookshelf. "10 poems on how to live your life" or somesuch nonsense which I would normally have dismissed rather quickly in a bookstore, though never would I have picked up the collected works of above author in someone's house. No judgement of the poetry itself from this corner. I just think I needed it.

Fighting the Good Fight

Pipets in the trash bin. I think I won. Trash can equidistant. Me with the unfamiliar small volume low weight unpredictable tips. He with the 200 microliter "sure things". My ejector worn out from years of use. He with the ergonomically correct Rainin. Silence. Both of us calmly loading gels without acknowledging the other and simultaneously shooting the tips in without a sideways glance. I won. Some days I love my job.