Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Under the Impression

At another hotel, working at another congress. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep or maybe it’s a prolonged exposure to consciousness. Whatever the case the mind is being offered information from the senses that really don’t add up. I feel like a misguided missile of reality, a grenade that suddenly became a boomerang to the unsuspected origin of deployment. There sounds what seems to be a giant dishwasher in the ceiling. My thoughts gather like those pilled stones you find near some beaches that someone wearing a tinfoil hat had stacked previously. That was a lot of work to stack those very small piles of pebbles in line – most of them form some sort of geometric design. The mysterious wonder of people come in all kinds of shapes, flavors and semi glossed laminated coupons.

I think that giant dishwasher is on its drying cycle. Am I the only one who hears it? There is a large white dry-erase board to the right of my table, when did it show up? I haven’t noticed it until I realized it was there. Just like a mattress store or Carlface McGee. No one ever expects that guy. This meeting room seems to be breathing like a cheap lava lamp. The fax machine feels distant, it must be thinking of a symbiotic relationship and a navy blue can opener equipped with 26 medium sized easy grip handles. Sure it’s complicated but who doing the math? Lunch is being served, maybe I should eat before Dubious the Perudo Master decides to throw the switch and exacerbate my sandwich.

Lunch, just came back from it. Is it me or eating alone in a really large meeting hall seem a bit odd. I was sitting at a table amongst 47 other white sheeted eight foot round tables complete with the cloth napkin apparatus. There were three waiters in black suites standing eerily still. Almost elbow to elbow in an exaggerated Disney’esk perfectly animated posture. In the corner of my eye I noticed one waiter standing alone. About 34 feet, 8 inches from the others, he however was not still, constantly shifting his weight from one leg to the other as if he was impatiently waiting for nothing to happen. His movement was slow and rhythmic, you could almost set your watch to him. So I did, but he was the wrong time – stupid Grandfather Clock pendulum impersonator. I was sitting in the middle of this empty room and the hotel had these small speakers on very tall poles playing inappropriately fast jazz. You know that kind of jazz that jumps into your skin and slaps around like a hyperactive cool handkerchief stuck between a warm back and a hot sweater. Yes, it was almost near comfortable.

The fatigue is settling in as the day is near to an end.

Until Next Time.

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