LIVE NEWS

Here I am. This is where we work... hard. This is where the phone rings, where there’s click and clang, clack and tack. Thumbs run over space bars, brows curl as time spills from the clock, words are etched and sketched on a white screen, yawns stretched from the souls of the drained. The craft is formed, the mind numbed, the text typed and the
God knows I love it. The work has to be done and this group does it. Next to me are those who love it and need it; those who want it and grab it. The skills they learn, they use. For them, there is no price to long hours, sagged eyes and blood stained tears when files crash and hard work dies. If they were in the dead heat, they’d be drenched. They run, jump, scream and swing on the screen--The price for the skill—the craft—the muse that Stepp sings praise to.
I look and grin. I too have stepped into that role. Tired eyes. The click and the clack of a mad type on a blank, white screen fills my ears over and over again. I’m there far too late, so I take the Word of God--my muse-- with me. Pizza crumbs spoil my shared desk. It’s my life right now.
Click…clack…click…clack…over…and over…and over. The phone rings, the thumbs run, the words are etched and sketched. It starts. It ends. It starts. It ends.
Rest will come one day.