Maroo

My cat used to say 'maroo' whenever he seemed overwhelmed with life.

Maroo.

It is one week until my holidays begin, so of course I am in pre-holiday clean-my-desk and don't-leave-ugly-shit-for-other-people-to-deal-with mode. And more things keep popping up all the time. I have an interview next week for that job that I still don't know if I want or not. I think - suddenly - that we should plan a lecture series on aboriginal history for the fall, and need to make a budget submission about it (to access grant money) before I go. Why can't I sit and be a bump at these meetings? I think I shall take on 'being a bump, occasionally' as a goal to set for myself. Bumps statistically live longer and drink more gin (I'm sure of it).

Aside from my squirrel leanings, I often think of myself and my genetic forebearers as tiny birds who fly crazy, have wildly fast heartbeats, and burn themselves out and die at an early age. It is my destiny. I can yearn to be a bump, but to no avail.

Flutter, flutter, whirrrrrrrr.