Homage to the lurky moon

I was trying to find something to write about this morning, so I visited E-bro to check my blood pressure and see what’s going on.

“Are you seriously going to update your blog every day?”

“Um, that’s the goal.”

“Were you drunk or something when you decided to do that?”

“No.  I just thought it would be good to put a lot of effort in.  But it turns out that I’m not really putting much effort into the writing part.  I’m just walking around panicking a lot, wishing I could think of something to write, and then slapping a post together at the end of the day.”

“Oh.  You could write about my new bandaids.  They’re pre-loaded with Neosporin. And you’ll like this:  one end is longer and tapers to a point for improved wrapping.  You can also talk about how I wore it in the shower, even though I know better, because there’s always that moment when you think, ‘oh, it will dry really fast’ but it never does. It just gets soggy and gross.”

“Um, okay, I’ll keep that in mind.”  My blood pressure turned out to be slightly high, maybe because we were in a little argument about whether people switch ears when they use the phone.  I’m of the opinion that people have two ears: their phone ear, and the other one, but E-bro got on the internet and found all kinds of information on earbidextrous people, which I still don’t think is a real thing.

As I walked back to my cubicle I noticed an odd high-pitched squeaking.  I thought I was possibly being followed by a stealthy squeaky person, because when I stopped to listen, the noise stopped.  This seemed like good news for the blog, but it turned out to just be my shoe. [By the way, I feel compelled to let you know that the “Q” key is really sticky because I spilled some of that apple glop I wrote about the other day on the keyboard, and although I have no regrets because that apple was so good, I won’t be using the word “squeaky” as much as I’d like.]

Just about then, I got paged to go to the Permit Center.  The man waiting for me wasn’t our typical customer, possibly because he was carrying a fair amount of luggage, and looked like maybe he lived outside.  When he first started to talk, his voice was extremely squeaky (there’s that Q again), exactly like my shoe but about 7 times louder, which was still very quiet.  For a burly guy in a wool coat, the voice was surprising, but after he used it for a few sentences, it sounded pretty good. Almost like he could be on the radio.   I’ve never talked to someone like that before, who starts out with a quiet skreaky (see how I avoided the Q?) mouse-like voice, and warms up into a rich baritone. It made me a little sad, because it seemed possible that years had gone by without him uttering a sound.  The first few words reminded me of the pump at the cemetery where my grandfather isn't buried, but should be.

“I’d like to get an environmental assessment done.  Do you have grants that could make that a reality?” All squeaky and high pitched.

“Uh, no.  We don’t offer grants. Really, though, you want to get an environmental assessment done?”

“Well, it was a dream of mine,” he said in a really nice voice, “but I guess it won’t be happening.”

He stood up and left, and I wasn’t really sure what just happened, but if I had to guess, I’d say he was homeless and came inside to get warmed up, because it didn’t make any sense.  In thirteen years, that's my first time meeting someone who's dream is to get the government involved with their property.  It would be like asking for colonoscopy grants  -- "It's a dream of mine to fast, and then drink a nasty liquid that will cause diarrhea, and then have a crew of strangers insert a small camera into my rectum.  Do you have grants for that?"  I wish I had kept him talking for a while, or maybe invited him to join N. and me for coffee when we went a few minutes later, because we talked about fishing, and I think he would have liked that. 

I know, you’re still wondering why you’re reading this, and I can’t answer that, but I will tell you why I’m writing.  I’m writing because I’m trying to savor the tiny things that happen each day that aren’t particularly noteworthy.  I’m trying to pay homage to that lurky second moon that surprises me each time, dancing around in it’s own random orbit.  It’s that second moon that creates the magic in my life, and it seems like a good idea to notice the moments as they tumble at me, one after the next.

Thanks for reading.