Every passing hour or so, the dead air becomes alive with the sound of a very distinct, one-syllable word, borne of sheer frustration.
There are cue cards all over the wall above my desk. I remember, almost fondly, buying those cue cards. They were for a first-year psychology class at the University of Alberta. I wrote a term on the front and information on the back, to create flash cards for studying subjects I couldn't quite wrap my mind around. I'd pull them out on breaks and bus rides to quiz myself, until the information was nearly solidified in my mind.
Ah, those were the days.
Now the cue cards always read, "This story will show that. . ." in bold black sharpie. Known facts and figures have been replaced with questions, queries, pieces to the puzzle I'm trying to put together.
Instead of memorizing information, I'm trying to create information. But instead, I'm just gutterly, repetitively, throwing my new favourite one-syllable word out into the silence, hoping it will make everything all better, just like when you stub your toe and that one word is the salve to make everything better.