Rumble, Rumble
An Exercise in Minimalism

Step back one day, then one more. You're there.

One final exam down, I come into work in the afternoon. There's barely any drafting work to do, so I stretch the work out to four hours. Check email, journals, discussion boards. See what others are saying. I decide to grow a beard. I write one journal entry, then another. People comment and congratulate.

One of the project managers -- W. Dan G.; the W. there because of the existence of another Dan G. in the office, Gresens instead of the Gehrels who stands in front me -- asks how the exam went. He tells me about this new beer he's brewing, going to call it Monkey Fist Ale. I wonder if it will taste like monkeys. Maybe he'll have a chimpanzee dressed as a pirate on the label, eyepatch over the right eye. Arrr. Going for a nautical theme. Maybe he'll employ at the release party an army of chimps serving beer, wearing tuxedos, handing out buttons. I can't wait to see the newspaper headlines.

At 4:00, the floor rumbles under my chair, the metal shelf which houses my drafting and engineering textbooks rattles and vibrates. I ignore it, thinking it the earthmovers and bulldozers on the street outside again, widening the road and making the whole office building thrum. In a house a half-hour north of where I live, the plants and hanging lights swing of their own volition. On the news that night, a report of an earthquake in Virginia, a 4.5 according to Richter (Charles F., not Andy).

Step forward. Stop. I go to work in the morning, then leave at noon. One final assignment in John K's class to turn in, the first chapter of my novel. The further adventures and wicked games of Blue and Dane. We get to know Zoran V. before he is immolated, pfaff! I write 700 new words, stretching the opener to a goodly length.

I get past a sticky spot in Enter the Matrix and finish the game in two hours, realizing, yes, it does indeed add to the story. The Oracle tells why she changes her shell (beside the previous actress, Gloria Foster, unexpectedly passing away), how important the little Indian girl in Revolutions will be. Despite my bitching, a very cool game. I also discover the hacking section of the game is more in-depth than it seems.

A call to Janet in the evening, talking for an hour and running out of things to say except "I love you" and "I miss you". We discuss her new project, which is still top secret. (See her most recent work.)

Step forward. Stop. You're here.

I wake up with a bloodshot right eye; wash it out with water, squeeze eye-drops in. Allergies. It looks like I was getting high, but only on one side of my face. On the way to work, I stop in at a café and order a medium mocha to wake myself up. In the office, the copier on the other side of the cubicle wall chugs and produces that toner smell. I down the mocha quickly, then every ten minutes bring the cup to my nose to saturate the olfactory cells with coffee instead of toner.

W. Dan G. walks in and hands off some architectural markups to be worked on, says he's developed a new flavor, Lighthouse Lager. Not as funny or eye-catching as Monkey Fist, but they can't all be winners.

My seat rumbles and my shelf rattles, the earthmovers outside again. Or maybe an aftershock? I check my eye in the bathroom mirror; the itchiness is gone, but some of the red remains, forked capillaries poised to strike at the iris. The beard is starting to come in and I think I may keep it.

[The preceding was inspired by Zoe Trope's daily essays.]

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