I saw no problem in leaving work an hour early today. I justified it by not taking a lunch break; and no, eating my tuna sandwich while uploading an automated call center manual onto an IT collaboration website and reviewing a power-point slide on what our donation website would look like does not count as a lunch break. Besides, I had to rush that sandwich since I had a conference call in less than a half an hour.
So, to get work off my mind, I decided to take advantage of the somewhat early evening and get a coffee and just read (and when I say read, I mean people watch).
The table outside of Lulu’s was looking desirable. I sat there with my latte and my latest reading material: The Time Traveler’s Wife. Many pages were turning; the story was so fragmented as I was learning about the relationship between Harry and Clare: the two protagonists of my book. The main plot driving point of this story is that Harry is born with a genetic disorder called chrono-impairment, which means he naturally slips out of time, but within his own timeline existence. This causes a slight problem for his wife, Clare. It’s a fascinating spin on the traditional romance story.
However, my reading endurance was slightly shattered as I heard these archaic voices coming from behind me.
“He doesn’t need to cry!”
“Yes he does! Yes he does!”
“Are we going to find him?”
“Where do you think we’re going?”
I lifted my head from the aura of my book and I saw three women who were launching these questions and answers. These were three extremely old and extremely obese individuals who were all in motorized wheelchairs; they were blasting down Pacific Avenue. Where I saw them, they were crossing the street and passing Jamba Juice and continued towards where the post office is. I apologize to those not situated in Santa Cruz and the lack of geographic distinction.
Their wheelchairs were decorated with all kinds of hippie style blankets and various little ornaments dangling from the back end of the chairs. After hearing that brief segment of their conversation, I figured they were looking for someone. But due to the leader of the pack (they were moving in a line, front to back) and her raging words “Yes he does! Yes he does!’ and “Where do you think we’re going?” they were looking for someone who had spilt blood (but not his own).
I give you mad credit if you were putting together the same pieces I was. These three women were indeed the Furies, or the Erinyes, or the Eumenides (it's your call). Derived from Greek mythology; they were the personification of vengeance; there they were: Tisiphone in the front, Alecto in the middle, and Megaera in the back. I pray for the individual they were looking for. From what I gathered, the threesome aren’t the most forgiving type; well, unless you’re Orestes, but I’m going to make you read the Oresteia trilogy by Aeschylus in order to get that reference.
So, to get work off my mind, I decided to take advantage of the somewhat early evening and get a coffee and just read (and when I say read, I mean people watch).
The table outside of Lulu’s was looking desirable. I sat there with my latte and my latest reading material: The Time Traveler’s Wife. Many pages were turning; the story was so fragmented as I was learning about the relationship between Harry and Clare: the two protagonists of my book. The main plot driving point of this story is that Harry is born with a genetic disorder called chrono-impairment, which means he naturally slips out of time, but within his own timeline existence. This causes a slight problem for his wife, Clare. It’s a fascinating spin on the traditional romance story.
However, my reading endurance was slightly shattered as I heard these archaic voices coming from behind me.
“He doesn’t need to cry!”
“Yes he does! Yes he does!”
“Are we going to find him?”
“Where do you think we’re going?”
I lifted my head from the aura of my book and I saw three women who were launching these questions and answers. These were three extremely old and extremely obese individuals who were all in motorized wheelchairs; they were blasting down Pacific Avenue. Where I saw them, they were crossing the street and passing Jamba Juice and continued towards where the post office is. I apologize to those not situated in Santa Cruz and the lack of geographic distinction.
Their wheelchairs were decorated with all kinds of hippie style blankets and various little ornaments dangling from the back end of the chairs. After hearing that brief segment of their conversation, I figured they were looking for someone. But due to the leader of the pack (they were moving in a line, front to back) and her raging words “Yes he does! Yes he does!’ and “Where do you think we’re going?” they were looking for someone who had spilt blood (but not his own).
I give you mad credit if you were putting together the same pieces I was. These three women were indeed the Furies, or the Erinyes, or the Eumenides (it's your call). Derived from Greek mythology; they were the personification of vengeance; there they were: Tisiphone in the front, Alecto in the middle, and Megaera in the back. I pray for the individual they were looking for. From what I gathered, the threesome aren’t the most forgiving type; well, unless you’re Orestes, but I’m going to make you read the Oresteia trilogy by Aeschylus in order to get that reference.
2 comments:
!! You of all people should know they prefer to be called "the Kindly Ones."
Keep in mind that the infamous trio were called the Erinyes, which translates into the Furies, but after granting forgiveness to Orestes, they were referred to as the Eumenides, which is Greek for the Kindly Ones.
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