Transmission from an office park

I frequently return to this internal habit: I read screens and songs and weather patterns for proof of something excellent and heartbreaking. It's something I've resolved (sitting in the metal folding chair out back) to nix. 

I've started a 9-5 job that makes me out to be the dullest tack in the tack pile. Imagine me like this: hunched in the swivel chair, arms at 90 degree angels, writing emails for a bitter subset of people who don't read anything written, and for whom I write repetitive slop describing melons, corn, community engagement. Today I got to see "the server room". 

There continue to be Big Bang like events, continuously generating (infinite?) new universes. In mathematics, the universes may have different compositions, different fundamental elements. There could be a universe without atoms at all, a universe made of marbles, a universe of heads full of marbles, one made of unimaginable types of cheese. 

The receptionist is telling someone on the phone about her bone graft, the teeth were getting loose, she explains that they insert cadaver bone to fill the emptying space, the teeth were getting loose, the teeth were getting loose! Sometimes she laughs hysterically to herself. When I die I will donate my body to science. I wish I was kinder.

Some believe that there are fundamental mathematical rules that underlie the multiple (infinite?) universes. Things like gravity are environmental details (you would float on Pluto but not on Earth), gravity is not a "rule" of our universe, rather an expression of a greater rule (easiest described in a formula). The greater "rule" is the underlying physical reality of attraction. I think it is likely, despite the possibility of infinite other universes, that there is not another version of me also sitting at a desk picking my nose. Then again, I know nothing of statistics or theoretical physics.

Frequently, I see people wandering down the wide paved streets of the office park and wonder if I've been sucked in a time warp and spit out into one of the multiple foreign universes. The people wear crumpled blazers, sometimes wide brimmed hats, ill fitting slacks. 

Bored, I poke the small beast & look at the ceiling tiles to examine the feeling. 

I waste a lot of time, I open 20 tabs on the laptop and the ignorant hope I carry in my stomach withers. My boss watches my laptop activity via a laptop eavesdropper software, the ethics are dubious. The women's bathroom has baby blue stalls, air freshener canisters, two toilets. In the big stall you can sit on the toilet and hug in your knees to your chest and imagine yourself teleporting somewhere else. The blue of the stalls is a coddling color, it mocks, thumb in the mouth. 

I write things I hear through my headphones into my work notebook and imagine my coworkers reading it after I quit: "Is red herring a real fish and does it taste good on crackers or toast" & "Kepler was barking up the wrong tree" & "Look into Ham Radio."

There's a fun game I invented where you rapidly scroll up and down on a page of text and let your eyes un-focus, then you randomly pick out one word at a time and create brand new sentences:

20 big receptionists, old beasts barking on the ham radio. Marbles swirling and loose, dull tacks imagine a greater hope. Proof of theoretical physics, ceiling tiles, teleporting, the hysterical universe. The people wear headphones, hug hats to chest, don't wonder of anything written, poke the cadaver bone. Geez. I have different compositions of heartbreaking mathematics, intimate formulas, loose physics. Air freshener canisters end work and spit on toilets, I quit!