2 December 2011

December 3, 2011

I’m watching people lay sod in the courtyard next to my apartment. They’re carrying it around in wheelbarrows, walking, it appears, in circles. I don’t know how to lay sod, though, so I have to assume this is how you do it. It’s drizzly today. I’ve watched them build this whole courtyard from scratch. They started a year ago and just last month it started looking okay. They planted some trees, except they were already full-grown trees, so I guess what they did was relocate them. They churned up some dirt and now they’re laying down sod.

I stood next to the courtyard and watched them work. The whole place smelled like dirt. A guy walked out of the building with his jacket slung over his shoulder, holding the collar with his index finger. I’ve heard this will be the Fossil headquarters. I looked in the windows but there were just empty looking cubicals and a few empty looking people. A woman stared at me like she knew who I was. I wondered if maybe she had seen me in my window, and that’s how we knew eachother: from our windows.

We moved desks at work today. It takes awhile to feel settled. It’s strange how a place can feel so different, how something so arbitrary as where you sit can change your life. You move across the building and you might as well move across the state. Experience is always specific like that, though. When I talk about where I work, I’m really just talking about ten or so people of the hundred and fifty.

And to be honest, I don’t care that I have nothing to say today. How many things can one person have to say? You’re lucky if you say even one important thing a year. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.

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