If, When Studying Road Atlases While Taking, as You Call It, Your Morning Dump, You Shout Down to Me Names Like Miami City, Franconia, Cancún, as Places for You to Take Me to from Here, Can I Help It If All I Can Think Is Things Are Stupid?

Bookkeeper quitting. This should give me more joy: Bookkeeper the single worse manager of staff I've ever experienced since working in Arnold's Deli on Redland Road in Derwood in 1975 when I was sixteen. Opinions differ between us whether Bookkeeper more idiot than asshole or asshole than idiot, all agree Bookkeeper's a moron. Opinions differ between us whether Bookkeeper might be a decent human in real life though the majority of us guess Bookkeeper probably the same imperious moron in real life that Bookkeeper is as a boss and all of us convinced Bookkeeper considers herself an exemplary boss and morally superior human.

Bookkeeper's bosses consider Bookkeeper an excellent boss as far as we know, our bosses have never asked us what we think of Bookkeeper, though to be fair our bosses have never asked any non-professional librarian what non-professional librarian thinks about the non-professional librarians' professional librarian boss (or anything else for that matter). Our department gets praised to our boss and our boss' bosses by faculty all the time, faculty tell us, we only hear it from faculty directly, never from our bosses. All twelve bottles of French wine I was gifted by a group of faculty two weeks ago as thanks for services rendered distributed to all my colleagues, as was the email of thanks sent to me, Bookkeeper, and Bookkeeper's bosses (I saw the CCs) all of whom as yet, after two weeks, yet to say anything to me and my colleagues. I did forget to turn on the lights over the reference desk for the first time in four years this past Wednesday and got email from Bookkeeper asking me why I could not perform this simple act of responsibility and do I *want* to be written up for insubordination?

Bookkeeper quitting should give me more joy, and I don't mean to diminish my relief than starting May I need never interact with Bookkeeper again, but no joy at Bookkeeper's departure, the structure and culture of Bookkeeper's bosses remains (think professional Democrats and their West Wing zealot wannabes), and already Bookkeeper's bosses have made interim manager until Bookkeeper's replacement hired (in approx eighteen months, no shit, that's the timetable) precisely the person every single one of my colleagues expressed both revulsion at the prospect of and complete confidence would be named. This, of course, micro-fine metaphors abounding, typed while fully aware few of you get the obscure Kids in the Hall allusion (and without me providing a youtube to the skit), and typed not only while dark and sideways over macro-fine metaphors abounding but angry because it's motherfucking snowing outside and the Catoctin hike Lynn and I had planned today canceled. Along with the twelve bottles of wine I got cakes and pastries from a famous bakery in Arlington, I don't drink wine, I don't like sweets, finally a fine metaphor abounding that makes me laugh happily instead of angry wryly. Angwryly

And joy? Joy is another brilliant new Destroyer song, first listen, smitten.

All posts are live posts and edited until I stop editing but this one more live (or not, I'll see) than most
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FRESH HELL			I am both delighted and horrified to discover that at the inevitable news that the National League starting now and forever will use the DH I've no fucks to give
Been bingeing Carl Phillips

DOMESTIC

Carl Phillips

If, when studying road atlases

while taking, as you call it, your   

morning dump, you shout down to   

me names like Miami City, Franconia,   

Cancún, as places for you to take   

me to from here, can I help it if

all I can think is things that are   

stupid, like he loves me he loves me   

not? I don’t think so. No more

than, some mornings, waking to your   

hands around me, and remembering   

these are the fingers, the hands I’ve

over and over given myself to, I can   

stop myself from wondering does that   

mean they’re the same I’ll grow   

old with. Yesterday, in the café I   

keep meaning to show you, I thought   

this is how I’ll die maybe, alone,

somewhere too far away from wherever   

you are then, my heart racing from   

espresso and too many cigarettes,   

my head down on the table’s cool   

marble, and the ceiling fan turning   

slowly above me, like fortune, the

part of fortune that’s half-wished-

for only—it did not seem the worst   

way. I thought this is another of   

those things I’m always forgetting   

to tell you, or don’t choose to   

tell you, or I tell you but only

in the same way, each morning, I

keep myself from saying too loud I

love you until the moment you flush

the toilet, then I say it, when the

rumble of water running down through

the house could mean anything: flood,

your feet descending the stairs any

moment; any moment the whole world,

all I want of the world, coming down.