Gentle Violence

Dear J-

I haven’t seen the cozy couple in a few days; they sit in one of the lounge chairs facing each other, feet propped up before a busy shift in foodservice of some sort, judging from the whites and checked pants. Perhaps they’ve shifted to a different schedule, or maybe it’s just different this week as everyone is getting through spring breaks. Running out the door in the evening, as I head to pick up the kids, I asked where I should be going: in three weeks off, figgy has three different destinations and I just need to know she’ll be there when I show up. Do I know what’s going to happen next week? It may be the YMCA; it may be out on HIllsdale. In any case I have but to think of the world rushing up with vacation for everyone before I can rest.

I suppose one of the things I enjoy doing, really enjoy is writing, which is strange; I always struggled with making sure I had the right word count (how many filler words can you add? I sure got good at that while I was writing in the journal some weeks) and adding sufficient description; I find it helps to just blarg some words onto the page (blarg, as in after drinking excessively, many people blarg involuntarily) initially and then go back and edit it down to be more concise, more precise, less redundant, because I – you wouldn’t know it to look it – have now swung the opposite way in my writing. Writing articles helps that, although every so often I want to put in a Wikipedia tag (where’s my curly brackets?) to prove some fact or another.

I wonder how cross they would be if I threw in something that I didn’t say I’d use, or if they knew how I enjoy the contradictions in language: gentle violence. There are legacy reports we carry; we sell the same language, customized with data, for all the different clients we have but here we are, step by step, rung by rung. The more things change the more they … change. I have many ways of being wild, although I suppose the wild words can be reversed as easily as making words float on the page.



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