One day I’ll be a minstrel in the gallery, but for now I’m just an Independence Avenue muse.
And what a situation it is, watching folks skimming along the motorway shoulder and flitting up close behind, rushing to their assigned daytime tasks. Those who cut through parking lots to save an intersection’s worth of delay torque my jaw as they live out their self-absorbed arrogant little lives. Ahh, there goes a another scumbag, taking a right/u-turn/reentering onto the merge lane to get ahead of us.
I’d bet interviewing them is a step below eating dirt. I probably give them the false salutations at work, like “How are you today?” when, if I know knew I’d just seen them, it would be more like “You bottom-feeding more-roon, self-centered Jerry Jones knock-off, are twenty car lengths all that important? Get a life – somewhere else.” Now I better understand the generic, “I’m fine, thanks.”
Like those birds soaring nearby on the morning’s warming wafts, my mind wanders far afield, tucking its wings toward northwestern Maryland. Beavers toil, turtles dart about and the life of a minstrel is at ease and complete at the evening’s campfire. Sweet oak crackling, the cool breeze and scents of dinner curry my brain into tranquility. I think know why the muses practice their craft in these gypsy circles - it brings a circular harmony into their world. Think I’ll practice that concept at lunchtime: “Let’s gather round, co-worker chums, and harmonize ourselves before staff call.” [that fell flat even as I was typing…]