A Thousand Thunderclaps

This morning a warm, weltering haze of yesterday's less-than-delightful temperatures remained on the streets and in the U-Bahn. I rushed off to work at 9:25 and arrived, wearing a T-shirt for the first time in a nod to the weather, quite punctually.

I spent much of the morning trying to find the website of a company, which appeared ghostlike to have vanished from the internet proper; and a reverse G***le image search of its logo forked up mostly cryptic links written in Chinese characters and a great deal of humbug.

It set a sad trend, since the next task was no easier. Amateur vendors appeared to have set up fairly arbitrary names for their merchandise, freely translated as it seemed from the English and adorned with mistakes like 'Kahi': like an original and exotic name, it was really a misspelling of 'khaki,' as I suspected and proved after researching that as well. My computer went on strike several times and I had to wait it out. There was one perfidious company that insists on christening its products with two sets of names each. One set is fancy and abstract and the next fancier and more abstract still; these were also far too longwinded for my purposes. And there was no greater indication perhaps of my ungracious mood than, after reading the whimsical moniker of 'Lazy Daisy', I thought angrily, 'That makes me sick!' Marshalling this merchandise into an orderly list was a thankless task. After a while my supervisor took it over; he was impressed (to my surprise) that I had gotten so far down the list already.

In the meantime one of the managers agitated heavily for an absence of mistakes, since several clients are on the proverbial doorsill waiting to be invited in and impressed by our services. My supervisor and I will also be training a new co-worker by the end of the week. My supervisor, already pulling double duty with me, took this with his customary, great composure. I have my doubts.

Lunch was a bright spot: Indian take-out, with a pumpkin-orange curry of green peas and paneer, large squared containers of fried rice that had in it wedges of chicken rippled with its natural grain, extra rice, and other dishes I didn't try. Our drinks bottles have also been restocked, so I had a running supply of carbonated apple juice — a German tradition: the Apfelschorle — and T. gave me peanuts and raisins covered in chocolate for dessert. Earlier the elevator had painstakingly been put into operation so that the toilet paper, paper towels, etc., could be restocked. (I'm sure that was critical information.)

Then (or earlier) the vanguard of a grey weather front, which had been expected yesterday, began to roll in. Thunder, in brief conversational peals, went back and forth; the light grew darker. Then it rolled away again.

Afterward, I went back to work and over another list of product names. Magnificently grumpy still, I was beatific when my supervisor told me at quarter after six that I had done a considerable amount of work on the first list; I could *save* this list and go home.

I was befuddled and *uploaded* the list. I think that therefore we will have a great deal more work in future than is practical. I came to this realization after stepping out of the U-Bahn at the foot of our block, on the way home. (My reading that time was The Quark and the Jaguar.) So I had to send a message to work once I got home. Besides I've spent the remaining evening being gloomy about it, although that is likely not helpful.

The weather, again, this evening: In the German national evening news we heard of the torrential flooding in Bavaria. Here there was thunder and lightning that skirted the southern horizon, in an ostensibly aimless way, until the sky above the street was sheeted in grey. Angled, heavy rain soon deluged the streets, much as might be expected. I was outside, and — besides being soaking wet within one city block (keeping in mind that Berlin's are reasonably large), later having to change my pants and long-sleeved shirt despite wearing a less-than-impermeable raincoat, and even having water run in through my eyelashes stingingly into my eye — one of the closest thunderclaps really felt as if it were boiling up, magma-like, from under the pavement beneath my feet.

It's the nearest thing I expect I'll experience to fleeing amidst thunderbolts that Zeus was firing after me, right and left, like temporary columns — in warning for some infraction of the will of the gods.

(Still, of course, I was hardly solitary on the street, with apartment houses looming over me, trees — thickly and shadowily leaved now — lining the sidewalks and the median, and other pedestrians taking shelter under the balconies and in the doorways or perhaps unwisely stalking along with a spiky umbrella alongside. So any feeling of particular importance would have been entirely imaginary.)

N.B.: I am purposely vague about the nature of my work so as to honour the non-disclosure agreement that I signed. Also, because I don't want to gossip about information that belongs to others, in any case — but share things that are my own things to tell. :c)