Here are some views of my new work environs in the Financial District.
Murray Street – food shops and such
Tulips on the Glass – Brookfield Place
Models on the Glass – outside Brookfield Place
Behind building (excuse my thumb, upper left corner)
My favorite view (non-glass)
What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower, We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind.
–William Wordsworth
My best wishes to all for a glorious Memorial Day weekend!
Having worked in corporate offices for the past 23 years, I am familiar with cubicles.
For those of you Mad Men fans, you might recall Don Draper’s secretary, the brilliant, witty Miss Blankenship, who passed away at her desk. Roger Sterling responds in his usual deadpan, “She died like she lived—surrounded by the people she answered phones for.”
Having been a secretary for over two decades, I found this scene utterly hilarious.
(google)
That is a large part of cubicle life–answering other people’s phones. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But as someone said somewhere, “No child dreams of working in a cubicle.”
I got a “D” in Typing class in high school and was furious that I had to even take the class. Typing tests were awful, with the instructor hovering hawk-like over our shoulders–made my fingers sweat. I remember thinking to myself, I’ll never be a secretary, so why do I need this? In retrospect, I am quite happy I took the class. Being able to type quickly and efficiently is a tremendous boon for a writer.
Don’t get me wrong. I am grateful to be gainfully employed. There are much harder jobs out there: working in a salmon cannery (done that), being a dog kennel cleaner in Burlington, Vermont (done that too) and door-to-door canvassing (yup, that too). As an aside, the dog kennel cleaning would have been okay if the owner/manager weren’t such a mean-ass wacko. He dressed in black jeans and tight black muscleT-shirts and gold chains and screamed at and intimidated all his employees. He looked more like a strip club owner than a dog person. Operating those steam cleaners was no easy feat, either.
The point is, I have dreams that transcend the cubicle (or the cannery). It’s simply a matter of steeling my courage, taking a plunge or two or three or three thousand, and pursuing them.
Suburban Hobo 