I Don't Think the Gamma Ray Thing Worked

Repetition. Repetition. Linguistically I love it. Sonically it satisfies. As a life pattern, repetition seems impossible for me. Today I will be doing one thing at work. Over and over and over again. Cut the gel, label it. Cut the gel, label it. Cut the gel. Allll dayyy lonnng. Maybe tomorrow too. Oh. This kills me. Many many years ago I worked as a temp in a carboard factory, graveyard shift. I lasted less than two weeks. My job there was to take the piles of flattened cardboard off the conveyer belt, straighten it up and put it on a pallet. Over and over and over again. I wore canvas gloves on my hands and a blue bandanna on my head. We took breaks when the whistle blew, everyone stepping outside to smoke, because, well, what else are you going to do when you work at a cardboard factory? You could dance around and sing incomprehensible words like Bjork, but you would probably get fired. Today while I’m cutting gel I will think about the twists of fate and the power of choice. I will think about a woman I met outside while smoking on our fifteen minute break at the cardboard factory. She had had the same job for fifteen years. I didn’t make it fifteen days.