Archive | August, 2012

Passing precipitation ‘n’ ponderment.

If the cousin to contentment, twice removed, had a love affair with the Byron of boredom, their offspring would be akin to my current mood.

Moments of contentment flash by, like the brilliant white of lightning, before the ever familiar rumble of thunder follows. Sometimes. I have such a feeling of calm that it feels as if all my tangles are merely a cryptic crossword waiting to be unlocked and understood.

The feeling is beautiful yet mercurial, like Emma Stone at a red carpet event.

Maybe happiness isn’t knowledge and acceptance built over time, but more like the tides … pulled to and fro with the whimsy of the moon and its gravitational garter. Maybe you need only faith and the flow of the sea to reap the grande jubilee. And like global warming, over time, my core temperature will rise, slowly toasting my cockles, crusty and choleric.

Sure, the proverbial polar is done for. But what is this? Reality?

Or maybe the best way to view one’s life is through a collage of casements – one for each moment you care to call upon continuously – and they can be framed in such a way as pose your plot any way you choose. Poetic for an epoch. Moving and mosaic for a minuet. Maybe.

the wuc bytes – the switch

I’m feeling particularly bipolar, just thought you should know.

Today, I subsist on the upward swell of a wayward zephyr – with spring poking its salty nose out, sniffing the air like a groundhog, deciding whether it’ll grant me my yenned renaissance.

Yesterday, winter was in full force, wedging my emotional undies right up into the butt crack of au fait accompli. Confused? So was I, dear friends. So was I.

What can I tell you? I am simultaneously devoid of art and yet feel an intense need to create. To be recreated. To stop the endless cycle that is the laundry of my dirty psyche. I could mark this spot where I stand in defeat and exhaustion as if it were new, but I been here many times before. Each time, I stuck stick in that wheel like a grubby kid, determined to trip the cycle … only for it to reinvent itself rather than me. Alas in augura, amici.

I want to fuck that cycle right up. Take it out back and beat the crap out of it. To release the guns, Tito and Sally Field upon it. I wanna moontag that puppy in front of its girl crush and rub its spokes in the dirt. Kick it and shout, you’ll never be a BMX!

The crux is work, as per. The foundations I rest upon are being eroded like a sandcastle built at high tide. It’s as if someone cast a handful of spaghetti high into the air and I can only watch as the once-unified mass splits apart in slow-mo, scattering in separate directions, before plummeting down, down. Dust. Yes, along with my working brethren, I am the pitiful pasta in this scenario; though I can’t decide if my boss is the hand that tossed it or merely the hand in absentia, which could’ve outstretched ‘n’ snared us. But instead, let us fall.

Details will be forthcoming when I can rest them from my mind box, where they lie entangled in vine and whine. Until then, I look to the groundhog, wood chuck-chuckers. For whilst he’s an ugly little mother who drives angry, he holds spring in the palm of his claw. And if I can’t rest my thoughts from me, I’ll surely rest possibility from he – imaginary little bedfellow.

And, now. To all the beady-eyed little man boys out there, this one’s for you.

If you’re tempted to rise above this movie, thwart the tempt. For you’d miss out on the genius of Goldblum and brilliance of Bateman. They make me happy in my finespun bone. Peptone.

“It was like a Tourette-style truth serum, and I was caught right in the cross hairs.”

Initiative comes to thems that wait.

Holy shit box, it’s August.

With a new month, comes new expectations. None that I’ll rise to, but still.

In other news, did I mention that I’m learning Latin? Also known as the language of love (or armor inopiae) (lack thereof). When I imparted this in passing to the dubious fuckers who populate my working life, they responded thus:

  1. You’re such a random geek.
  2. Quôcumque, collega. (Whatever, dude.)
  3. Wow, I’m impressed! (aka I thought you were stupid?)

My teacher is a sweet fuddy-duddy of a man with a little-boy haircut slicked in gel and grey. Wrapped in scarves and soliloquy, steeped in comprehension and corduroy, he is the typical product of university … where time crawls and knowledge is fermented to become fruitful at a later date. I imagine he’s been corked and lain on his side for a decade, and now is a ‘good year’ ready to be drunk in. He speaks like Lemony Snicket’s Stephano and runs off on so many tangents as to leave your ear panting for punctuation.

Somewhere, he’s still finishing his sentence.

To be said like the cured cop in Kill Bill.

As for my classmates, it’s like a director carefully cast a reverse group of oddballs to star in an ensemble drama. Or like Judy Blume with wrinkles. And a staunch lack of eye contact. I like to think I’m the well-adjusted one and they’re simply scholastic serial-killers.

Meanwhile, I prematurely bonded with one guy, it prematurely became awkward and now I prematurely plan to avoid him at future classes. Such is my example of how to follow the arc of a relationship whilst skipping over the relationship itself entirely. My theory, either I’m too susceptible to and therefore sunken by subtext, or I’m a romantic athlete – shaving off the seconds it takes to get from intro to veto. (Roughly the time it takes to exhale on a sigh.)

If nothing else, ’tis indeed lovely to languish in language. To bathe in brogue … washing my neck with words of whimsy … scrubbing ‘twixt my toes with declensions and clause.

I’d like to think I won’t become one of those wankers who quote Latin at parties and correct your sneezes for grammatical errors, but I can’t promise anything. If it helps, there are fully fledged wankers at the ready, so consider me merely an understudy in the LA of life.


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