racing

I listen to a report on factories in china. I sit down with my dinner, close my eyes over the steam coming up from my bowl, and visualize in my mind the dystopia: the thousands of bodies--their joints eroding over the thin springs and microchips they handle for 12 hours a day. Their eyes bulging. I picture the thick nets that the gleaming factories have hanging off them like dead snake skin. These, to keep the workers 'safe' from suicide. I imagine the way the white nylon threads acquiesces from the force of the gray jacketed falling torso the way my soccer ball hit the back of the net during my younger soccer days. I can almost hear it. I say to myself, listen to their story, it's the least you can do. And I do,  I listen to the whole thing.

And then I bumble around the kitchen, thinking I'm going to to bake cookies, and I grab bowls too big and too small, I don't care to look at the recipe and decide that I'll just eyeball it, I put the plastic container holding the butter right on to the stovetop to warm it up ( I check constantly to see if their is a jellyfish of new wet melted plastic hanging over the metal). I'm whisking and whisking, and stirring and stirring. chocolate chips fly everywhere from the way I've opened the glossy bag.