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50 A Day’s Work The sky is solid gray over Lansdowne, buses spitting in the wet street. What did you expect, you wonder, finishing that degree, signing up for interviews? For those without an old man in the business, the rub is just to start from scratch. Join the haze of mailrooms, cubicle hallways, reception desks, clatter of Good mornings, Word Perfect and the chilly bleat of telephones, endlessly try not to be convinced by Xerox-clone hucksters (we’re your official supplier, honest, what can I order for you today?), easing client calls from your line to the boss’s. These are your days, one upon another, and how you make it through them: keeping some space open for lunchtime at the Gardiner Museum, Tuesday night tequila at the Pour House, next weekend at the lake, Plum Island 5 a.m. Sunday, beach towels and White Russians in a plastic jug. 51 You write “No Ideas But In Things” on the cover of a notebook. You fall in love with someone who plays Gershwin and likes Charles Sheeler. You bring your notebook to the Boston Public Library. You think that if you sit there long enough, flip pages, jot, peer through stained glass in the hallways, you can carve a small compartment for the frozen stream of Beauty, Joy, some wild abstract you know exists but need to be reminded of. ...

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