Sunday Scribblings "Indulgence"
The prompt over at Sunday Scribblings is “indulgence.”
in·dul·gence n
1. the gratification of or yielding to a wish
2. something that somebody lets himself or herself or somebody else have, especially a luxury
3. a kind or tolerant attitude toward somebody
4. in Roman Catholicism, a grant by the pope of partial remission of time to be spent in purgatory or of some other consequence of a sin.
5. time given to a debtor to repay a bill
Slumming
I start my day by sharpening an entire box of Ticonderoga No. 2 pencils.
Each has a uniform leaded point. Each is the same length, post sharpening.
I line them up on the leather-bound blotter on my desk, then fire up the computer and look at porn for a couple of hours.
I’m lunching with Freemon and the jokers from accounting, so I grab my file of take-out menus and spend the rest of the time until noon trying to decide where to eat. Knowing if I flash the platinum card, they’ll let me pick the place. And I feel like noodles at Momofuku.
In fact, I’m looking forward to it.
Anything to get out of the sterile confines of my corner office, with its steel-and-glass minimalist décor. Did I pick this? It’s got all the charm of a urinal.
“No matter,” I whisper, running a hand through my hair, which is heavy with pomade to hide the fact I’ve been growing it out for months.
In anticipation.
Soon, I’ll be on vacation, a week in St. Kitts to get some sun, let the beard grow. Get some grunge under the fingernails, take off the buff from the manicure I mistakenly got on a whim, not thinking ahead.
Then a week in San Francisco, living on the streets. Wearing others’ castoff clothing. Eating from the garbage. Begging people for change. Sleeping near the pier, or maybe down in the Haight.
Slumming we call it. Getting down in the shit, getting real.
Some might see it as a unforgivable indulgence, exasperating a problem when there’s no need. Especially since there’s so much suffering out there. So many hurting.
I’m not here to put up a defense. Or to offer an overwrought explanation. No way.
It just means my lamb with chickpeas, merguez spices and golden raisins the next time at Dovetail will taste even better, knowing there’s someone – men, women, families – waiting out back for the scraps.
in·dul·gence n
1. the gratification of or yielding to a wish
2. something that somebody lets himself or herself or somebody else have, especially a luxury
3. a kind or tolerant attitude toward somebody
4. in Roman Catholicism, a grant by the pope of partial remission of time to be spent in purgatory or of some other consequence of a sin.
5. time given to a debtor to repay a bill
Slumming
I start my day by sharpening an entire box of Ticonderoga No. 2 pencils.
Each has a uniform leaded point. Each is the same length, post sharpening.
I line them up on the leather-bound blotter on my desk, then fire up the computer and look at porn for a couple of hours.
I’m lunching with Freemon and the jokers from accounting, so I grab my file of take-out menus and spend the rest of the time until noon trying to decide where to eat. Knowing if I flash the platinum card, they’ll let me pick the place. And I feel like noodles at Momofuku.
In fact, I’m looking forward to it.
Anything to get out of the sterile confines of my corner office, with its steel-and-glass minimalist décor. Did I pick this? It’s got all the charm of a urinal.
“No matter,” I whisper, running a hand through my hair, which is heavy with pomade to hide the fact I’ve been growing it out for months.
In anticipation.
Soon, I’ll be on vacation, a week in St. Kitts to get some sun, let the beard grow. Get some grunge under the fingernails, take off the buff from the manicure I mistakenly got on a whim, not thinking ahead.
Then a week in San Francisco, living on the streets. Wearing others’ castoff clothing. Eating from the garbage. Begging people for change. Sleeping near the pier, or maybe down in the Haight.
Slumming we call it. Getting down in the shit, getting real.
Some might see it as a unforgivable indulgence, exasperating a problem when there’s no need. Especially since there’s so much suffering out there. So many hurting.
I’m not here to put up a defense. Or to offer an overwrought explanation. No way.
It just means my lamb with chickpeas, merguez spices and golden raisins the next time at Dovetail will taste even better, knowing there’s someone – men, women, families – waiting out back for the scraps.
Comments
that thin line
missalister
http://fullofcherries.blogspot.com/2009/07/chance.html