< link rel="DCTERMS.isreplacedby" href="http://ban-sidhe.com" >

Sunday, January 16

Traveling Salesman...

You get to the hotel around 8:30pm, park the car, grab your keycard and lug da luddage to your room. Unpack the suit, the shirts, the tie, empty your pockets, turn on CNN and connect to the internet to pick up your email. The advertised exercise room did not materialize, and so there is no need to unpack your gym pack. The guilt will stay at a minimum when you fail to exercise. Instead you obsess about how much more television you watch, and how little you read or blog or spend time with your daughter, but hey, the little tyke's never available, got an agenda like a Prime Minister. Tomorrow, you start a three day training course on high-level negociations. At least there's no customer to stroke. No whoring for THREE... WHOLE... DAYS! Nothing to regrow your lost cherry in, but perhaps the chaffing will ease off. A vacation, really. Since you're in da big city, you called your friends, and found one for every evening. Dinner, some drinks, talk, probably not in that order, and with luck, too tired and blasted to even see the hotel room each evening. The saggy bed, its snot&vomit spread, and the orangepeel and coffeegrounds carpet. At least the walls are white, and the majority of the channels are in languages you understand, and the tap water is potable, and the chances of a tsunami are nil. You make some calls. Family, friends. Everyone's fine. They haven't fallen in a crack, and they notice the weird toffey-stretched quality of your voice but can't imagine why you're calling them from another world where time flies slowly past sleepless and you're scared shitless of the dawn. Where they are, the kids are arguing, the dog is barking, and the hot humid closeness of their mingled breath is misting the windows aglow with yellow light, and a host of echoes, sharp or muffled paints a picture of a real live room even with every eye closed. Take heart. You've always crawled out of the cracks before. They've never tightened so, that you couldn't wiggle out. And if you couldn't... someone would come to look. The people you called. The hotel staff. Perhaps a cop. They'd come, and they'd hold your name. They'd hold it to your head. And it would fit. Location : Paris, France

3 Insights :

Blogger james intuited...

Beautiful writing mon ami!!! This was a treasure to read. You are quite the poet.

1/17/2005 11:44:00 PM  
Blogger Ria intuited...

Thanks for linking me, but I'm worried about your chafed cherry. Can't you get a cream or something?

1/17/2005 11:56:00 PM  
Blogger Mathieu intuited...

Thanks, it's already much better.

1/18/2005 12:11:00 AM  

Post a Comment

<< Home

Missed a recent post? Find it here.

Looking for more B.S.? Find it here.