Worm in the apple of life
I was angry in a dream last night, objecting to the objection of some girl at school as to the reason a door was damaged. I told her this was a world of realities, where people are dying real death. Children are being beaten by drunken parents, women by men who can't solve their own head-problems.
I don't know why I dreamed this. But I woke with the anger still brimming over in me. Why the pretentiousness of someone in my dreams should bother me is a mystery, too.
I don't think it's me, or my lacking anything. Maybe it is an unconscious reaction to middle class people passing judgment without knowing the facts of the ghetto. I don't much about the ghetto myself and I live in the middle of one.
Outside, the morning comes with the factory whistle. The holiday is over. People are hung-over with the luxury of a three day weekend, moving more slowly than they normally do beginning the work week. Trucks rumble across the newly refurbished bridge.
I'm cold. Spring has returned after a week of near ninety temperatures. It is good weather for job hunting, if that's what you have to do. I'm stuck with it, though I've caught Jimmy's disease-- resenting the unequal posture of boss verse employee as if working meant something dirty or disreputable. But I've folded the want ad section of the newspaper under my arm along with my notebooks, going to the waiting rooms and lunch rooms and offices of employment, trying to look humble when I don't feel it, trying to look as if the process of self-degradation is pleasing to me-- for only the truly masochistic would suffer though such things willingly.
Meanwhile, a singing bird teases me with its freedom. I don't curse it so much as envy this part of its life, when the sun is shining and the worms are fresh from the earth.
Work? Ha! The only worm in this scenario is me.