I play Coldplay’s Magic on repeat as I think about trying to begin cleaning my room. There’s so many places to start, for the room is a pile of spaghetti. Shall I hang the clean clothes? Put all the dirty ones in a pile? Pick up the shoes? Place all the bottles in the bathroom? Put all the books on a table together? Organize papers into a certain area? Unpack the suitcases and bags I seem to always be living out of?
Alas, I start with the trash. There’s a few empty bags strewn about from my retail therapy binges. I diligently fill them with receipts and ATM tickets off the floor. I count 16 boarding pass stubs in between all the price tags and CD wrappers. Boxes of gum and prescriptions. Wrinkled papers with useless notes. Shoe boxes and tissue papers. Coupons and bottle caps. A torn piece of an airline puke bag with a note scribbled on it saying “Hola- Enjoy your trip, if we ever land.”
Today I am offshore again. This rig is old, but the people are nice. They serve spaghetti and meatballs at lunch. The rig supervisors are a variety of Europeans. The company man looks like Groucho Marx and smiles when he sees me passing by his office. About a year ago, I was on this same rig, frantically reading procedures and losing sleep and meals hoping everything would go okay. A year ago, I was anxious and upset all the time. Today, I’m sitting in my wireline unit, diligently working, listening to Coldplay’s Magic on repeat.