A timid, grey sky being flaked into blue by chilled gusts. Why, why must the cold return and why, why must I take it as a personal affront? Last night my dream combined nods to “All that Jazz” (part of a big production number and the audition for it), a chanteuse with puppet extensions singing “La Vie en Rose” (at one point she laid a cool, dry hand on my face, and then placed one in my left hand as I helped her to rise – and afterward I lay, naked and applauding in a modified traffic median) and something I think derived from “the matrix reloaded”: a female figure receding along the west side highway through sluicing water and plates of ice. Everything was the rich black and white of a duotone.
Yesterday a message on my home phone informed me that my workplace had sustained a water main break, and that while they “thought we got most of your stuff” there had been substantial damage. So today I braced my self for whatever result. It turns out my office was one of the least effected, for two reasons: the water was gushing out of the walls far from where it’s located and while there was about two inches of standing water throughout the whole facility, I only had a couple of things on the floor. So there is very little damage. If it had happened at my home it would have been disastrous. Almost everything is lying on the floor there. I lost a book and one file. Many of my coworkers lost records, photo books and in some cases work that will be impossible to replace. Now twenty dehumidifiers the size of mailboxes whir throughout the offices while everywhere soggy paper is stacked, forlorn.