Unfortunately, that never got any work done, so…yeah.
I’ve spent the last two days out of the house, ending both days in “meetings.” The very notion of meetings makes my soul shrivel a little bit. I’ve grown accustomed to a dearth of small talk, having arranged my life so as to cut that insidious destroyer out. “Meetings” and “conferences” where small talk is necessary are slow torture for me, very much like working retail. I just don’t know how people do meetings all day. At least in retail you can find something new or at least memorable about each day. Meetings, on the other hand, are generally all the same people, and observing the forms of the extrovert dance is akin to being forced to tarantella until one’s legs fall off.
I’m not talking about long looping conversations you can have with close friends, or the ritual of “how was your day” observed with kids at the dinner table. Those seem, to me, to have more “meat” to them–to be actual food instead of the empty junk calories of small talk. I am interested in people–a writer can hardly be otherwise–but I long to smash the confines of polite meaningless talk and get to what they want, what they really think, and how to solve the problem if a problem is why the damn meeting has been called.
Anyway. I didn’t realize I’d grown so out of practice until I came home from Tuesday’s final meeting and found out I was physically twitching.
Now, of course, the kids are in school, the house is empty, I have Sigur Ros playing, and I can feel everything inside me untwisting and unclenching. It won’t make the world any less chaotic and brutal, but I’m grateful for the respite.