Everything is broken

Or maybe it's just me. If I had been rested and energized first thing in the morning, it wouldn't have bothered me when a co-worker got in my face the minute I arrived at my desk, demanding an explanation of a report I'd sent in on Friday. When I re-explained the faulty report in more detail, it was still wrong, and I immediately got a phone call complaining about the time allotments in the report, which should have been used differently. Clearly I should have known that before the fact.

Broken lines, broken strings,
Broken threads, broken springs,
Broken idols, broken heads,
People sleeping in broken beds.
Ain't no use jiving
Ain't no use joking
Everything is broken. (Bob Dylan)

So I went downstairs and got coffee to ease the Monday morning pain, read a few emails, revised the report again, and went to a funeral in Hilliard. Surreal would be the best descriptor. Maybe all funerals are a bit surreal. While I should have been thinking of my friend's loss of his father, everything that was said reminded me of my own father, another old-school midwesterner who loves to fix things and tell stories, so the photos and the stories about a man I had never met affected me more than I expected.

Broken bottles, broken plates,
Broken switches, broken gates,
Broken dishes, broken parts,
Streets are filled with broken hearts.
Broken words never meant to be spoken,
Everything is broken.

I did manage to touch base briefly with my friend before he did his pallbearing duties and departed for the cemetery. However, I missed Rev. Susan on her way out of the funeral home, having admirably done her part in the sad business, because I was caught up in conversation with a mutual friend with whom I seem to have a few things in common. We stood for a long time in the sunshine on the front steps talking about fathers, brothers, growing up, and all that stuff. I'm glad we got a chance to talk.

Broken cutters, broken saws,
Broken buckles, broken laws,
Broken bodies, broken bones,
Broken voices on broken phones.
Take a deep breath, feel like you're chokin',
Everything is broken.

When I got back to the office, I had only one more altercation with my nemesis and got to do some actual work for a few hours. Then I went to my class at the Rec Center, where attendance has declined even more than it usually does, but the stalwart souls who have hung in there are doing remarkably well. It was the last meeting of the quarter, and one never knows who will be back next quarter and who won't, so there is that sense of uncertainty over what worked, what didn't, and what could have been done differently.

Every time you leave and go off someplace
Things fall to pieces in my face

On the way home, the heater in the truck stopped working; the whine in the serpentine belt is getting louder; do you suppose they are related? I ate some soup and read a section of the paper. Gven's car was in the school parking lot behind our house with a flat tire because she couldn't get the lug nuts off. It could have been worse; the tire could have gone flat on the interstate downtown. I went out with a flashlight and put the donut-like spare on, so she could go to the tire store tomorrow. That was painless.

Broken hands on broken ploughs,
Broken treaties, broken vows,
Broken pipes, broken tools,
People bending broken rules.
Hound dog howling, bull frog croaking,
Everything is broken. (Copyright ©1989 Special Rider Music)

After checking the modem, the router, and turning it off and on again, my computer would not connect to the Internet, so I was stymied and could not check my Facebook page and spend a few minutes in my other, virtual life. I was tired anyway, so I went to bed - and dreamt of another surreal existence, where everyone pays taxes (or not) voluntarily, based on their ability and willingness to pay for government services, which are then tracked in a kind of running account where people deposit their taxes and withdraw services. No word on how that's working.