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Friday, October 31, 2003

The [key]Strokes

I've been delivering mail for the Foreign Language building now for just over 4 months.

With the help of two elevators and a four foot tall beige cart I scale throughout all 4 floors of this upside-down pyramid of a structure, delivering postcards from Warsaw, packages from mom back in France, quarterly Chinese language journals, round poster tubes from Italy, massive steel rolls of film canisters from Switzerland, a broad broad array of various advertising pamphlets, including the monthly Victoria Secret newsletter to several naughty naughty staff members working here in the building.

So whatever. I've delivered hundreds of messages in handfuls of languages to dozens and dozens of different people. I am just one of the many intermediating forces between one nameless, faceless, handshakeless, small-talkless entity and the other. Though I pride myself as a conductor of information, a sieveless filter, a dreamcatcher with no strands, just a hollow hoop with no bad dreams or paranoia.

There's point A, there's point B and there is me, disappearing between the two points, strecthing thin with the gossamer thread that trickles and traces it's way across a really big blue ball. From point A to point B: "We miss you, please come home."

No handshakes, no small talk, "Don't miss out on this special offer!" No quick furtive peeks and shy glances away, "This is how much you owe us:" No shaky stuttering or random outbursts of nervous interruption, "Yeah, but- No, but-" no ruminations about what you could have should have would have said, "Learn how to speak five different languages!"

Simple. Direct. Bold. Impervious messages delivered from point A to point B; it's just overcompensation for being unable to get to point You from point Me.

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