Monday Morning


Monday morning.
Whizzing fantastic blur of cars
Destination pre-determined
Motivation un-motivated
Bitter, coffee-fueled rage of road
Emails, texts, calls, calendars
Punch in to punch
A ticket to anywhere else
9 a.m.

Comments

Post a Comment

Don't be nice. Be honest.

Popular posts from this blog

Spelling errors and sweating the small stuff

Yesterday morning a job post came across my LinkedIn feed.  "Content Marketing Specialist" it read.  I was good fit for the position—the right number of years shouldering the plow, the right industry experience (or patience if you look at it right), the right amount of bloated self-importance.  Like any good online-job-hunting millennial, I updated my portfolio materials and other application documents and clicked 'Submit.' The proper pixels were on their way, my coffee was fresh and the Louisiana humidity outside had not yet caused an uncomfortable sticky sweat. All was well, but as I closed all the pdf, indd, jpg, ai, doc windows, I panicked.  I felt something close to an excavator digging a bottomless pit in my chest.  A single glance at my pandered "Skills" section revealed the error. "Coversation Design for AI" Yes, feel free to face-palm. Make sure you strike with the whole palm not just the soft, cushiony parts. Get those call...
Read more

To Memphis: A Forgotten Delta

Image
I first took the train to visit my sister in Memphis. From my house in Baton Rouge, the drive is a seven hour straight shot north. But by train, it's only an hour longer. Call it my millennial weakness for "experiences", but Amtrak's City of New Orleans train seemed like the perfect opportunity to get a little something extra out of this weekend escape. I boarded at the train station in Hammond. As I approached the ticket window, I was excited from the simple fact that the station smelled well-worn, like a museum. It reminded me of the smells of old wooden pews and choir loft hymnals in the churches that adorn small Southern towns. Spending a Sunday on the train is worship in its own right. Like the congregations gathered outside their churches, all kinds of Americans, all shades, all origins are brought together on the train. Everyone has a different reason for riding.  One lady I spoke with stopped flying altogether after her plane was subject to an ...
Read more

Election season

America. Your soil Your boots Your dirt Your towers Your mud Your dream America. You’re pride You’re shame You’re beauty You’re blame You’re loud You’re brokenhearted America. Your time. You're ticking. Make it count.
Read more