To be filed under Like so totally stressed out and disarmingly distracted.
D, lest You are not up to par on your filing skills.
Wow, now doesn't that remind me of a tale of Yours Truly in her college/first-round salad days when I was a highly-paid non-internistic office worker at the on-campus corporation which I also worked for as Cultural and Performing Arts Chairman. So I was corporate double-dipping, if you will.
And working with a bunch of jaded grownups, all into their tasks at hand while I had to sometimes file requisition forms by Number. And then sometimes, in my daydreaming wanderlust and distraction (much like that previously mentioned) I'd be filing along and think Oh, SHIT, this one is not even close. And then I'd see there would be whole subsets of misfiled forms. And sometimes I'd go back and fix the situation or just think Really, who needs to see this crap again, and move on.
Then, years later (I am so on a filing memory roll here so go with it), this is where at the bottom of screen the words Five Years Later flash on screen, I am temping at some bigger, publicly-traded corporation and I'm sealed up in the bowels/tomb of this joint, filing for aeons. This was the trust department of a bank and I'd get lost in the tomb for hours as I had access to basically the back stories of scads of dead people and I'd look at their memorabilia, their passbooks, whatever. It was much like my stint as housekeeper/watcher/gardener at the North Buffalo home of a deceased lady and world traveler for a year.
So there I am, Wednesday night, campus of Niagara University, not too far from Toxicville.
Basically I live out of three bags - laptop, digital camera, film camera: I am a commuter in all aspects of my life.
So I grab one bag and shut car door, realizing in that nanosecond that keys to life are in bag #2.
Quick thinkathon.
Gig is starting in minutes so, in a nutshell, parents were called and they rescued me as AAA was called and the man on the phone had some confusion and had never heard of Niagara Falls ever. I imagined waiting on the campus, huddled against a closed 70's-era building for half the night. So Mr. & Mrs. Perfect, my mom and dad, rescued me. We were talking on our cell phones and they were saying We're in front of such and such. To which I replied But I'm in front of such and such. And, in the midst of a few bedraggled co-eds were they. Parents to the rescue. And, sadly, this is only the beginning. As the stress of cross-state travel, thesis thinking and writing, term paper r&d, freelance fulltimeness, basic life logistics chugs along I find myself in self-amazement at how things slip through the cracks of reason.
Many Did I just tell you thises. Lost keys, lost books, lost everything.
But then, mid-August, if all goes swimmingly, as JR thinks it might, I'll be a new Master. Of You. Of the Universe. Of all things interconnected, challenging and Olympiad in execution.
Salman Rushdie last night at Middling City U ended a lecture largely about the nature of writing and being a writer thinker with these words:
That's the job of it.

Love's Job.