This is our receptionist, Pam. If you think she's cute now, you should have seen her a couple years ago.

i'm at my desk on my leash - a headset phone sitting around my neck connected to the computer system by a black, spiral chord. obligated to answer the phone every time it rings. sometimes i get up to refill my coffee or stuff mail into one of our million mail folders and realize i'm still attached, and with a jerk at the throat i'm suddenly a little dog who's misbehaving on her daily walk.

this job has made me resent the telephone altogether. and along with the cell phone came the expectation that we should be able to reach anyone at any time. sometimes i need a break. sometimes i watch my cell phone ring, moving slowly in circles as it vibrates on my coffee table, and i don't answer it. i'm tired or i'm not in the right state of mind to be on the phone, and that's reason enough. however, i inevitably feel a pang of guilt, as if i'm watching idly as someone drowns and cries for help. but it's just a cell phone, and most of my calls are just to talk.

when will calls, however, it usually means he wants to come over, or there's been a change of plans. like yesterday. he called while i was riding the 22 bus home for the day. i was dangling from the high horizontal bar like a monkey in a tree (there were no seats) when i felt a vibration in my right coat pocket. knowing i may have to skip buying a new cta pass and scramble to shower upon a change of plans, i answered quietly. will, of course. reheating the spaghetti sauce was off, and we were going to the cubs game. his boss had given him tickets.

the game was fun. they won by ten points. afterwards, sassed up by three beers and hungry, will and i walked down clark street to the golden nugget for burgers.

he makes me too happy, which dampens my inner starving artist. there's no ounce of despair or lonliness left, no dissatisfaction or hunger (for anything), and thus no art to purge. i don't want to become one of those girls who wears sweatshirts and and doesn't understand gus van zant or laugh at dark humor - and i'm sure i won't go that far. still, i find myself blogging about telephones and cubs games and wondering what happened. the best artists were all troubled - gay, poor, jewish, insane, incarcerated, the victims of unrequited love. they weren't happy, employed, thoroughly loved 23 year old girls. where's the need for creating art when it exists around you, when your life is already gushing with it without even trying?

i won't stop trying to create art in my life. i won't stop thinking and feeling, playing my violin and trying to write meaningful things. it's just that i feel very content and very full, and i'll have to find a different way to do it.