Tag Archives: whimsy

sunday stalker – the turtle (part one)

She reminded me of a turtle. Slow, purposeful, reclusive. Like she carried an invisible load on her back which made her move very slowly to bear its weight.

A turtle is somewhat of an enigma – who knows what it does once tucked inside its shell for the night? What does it think, with such surplus time for contemplation in a world of perennial slow motion? I couldn’t help but wonder the same of her.

I first noticed her in the city, the world about her frenetically charged and moving at speed; like a tribal beat urging my heart to speed up, to match its pace, to become part of the rhythm. To contribute. But she was set apart from this scene by her very stillness.

Like a breath caught in lung, suspended.

But she wasn’t inert, far from it. Her eyes noted everything. They didn’t dart about, exactly. But were so large, her peripheral vision must have stretched beyond her forward gait to include her left and right, and what now lay in her wake – as if her conciousness could magically pirouette and tally this town in a split second. She was drinking it all in, as I was drinking her in.

She had smile lines at her eyes, which felt strange to me. I wondered if ageing had any effect if the person existed in a vacuum of anti-motion. She had long, artistic fingers. Longer than a turtle ought to have, if she were to shrink sudden inside her shell at the sign of first strife.

She crossed the street. I held my breath, waiting for the lights to change  and the cars to punctuate her progress. Somewhat disappointingly, she made it across with seemingly endless nanoseconds to spare … as if the world marched to her beat after all.

It was in that moment I decided to follow her, though I’m not sure the choice was mine. It was as if she pulled me after her, as she slid around a corner and out of my sight. Her sudden absence was like being woken from the quiet of hypnosis.

Unwelcome and overly bright.

stay tuned for part two …

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.

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.

You people make my ass twitch.

I’m not a morning person. As in, waking up for me is like emerging from a heavy coma. I envy morning people, they walk in the light. Their Saturday mornings seem happy places, filled with productive hours and morning papers; their Mondays a time to exchange Disney anecdotes about their light-filled weekends. Barf.

I, on the other hand, exist in the shadows and come Monday morning, am like Darth Vader with an atomic wedgie. This morning, I arose like a zombie fresh from the grave, arms akimbo. I fought the fight of the alarm clock and lost, as I always do. Spent five minutes negotiating with myself as to whether I could chuck a sickie (the answer came back, no); then zombie-walked myself into the wall / bathroom / work.

In morning mode, I’m a pastey version of The Incredible Hulk (or as the French say, l’incroyable hulk); my communication a series of grunts which could also double as morse code for bears. Brows sit low over wolflike eyes as I skulk into work, hoping to go unnoticed. Unfortunately, I remain stubbornly visible and the sing-song chorus of “morning!” is my cue to smile (as if my undies aren’t riding up my proverbial ass). It’s all I can do not to declare war with a return wedgie and shout, “cram it up your cram hole!”

Now is probably a good time to mention that while I may be a (relatively) young woman, at heart, I’m a curmudgeonly old coot whose bones ache. He barks at idiots that step on his toes, doesn’t like reaching first base with strangers on the bus, and hates chit-chat. He says things like, “you people make my ass twitch” and “that makes my ovaries want to commit suicide” because yes, he’s somewhat gender-rebellious.

There’s no arguing with him because he’s old and set in his ways. He paid his dues and if he wants to wear underwear up to his teeth, he bloody-well will. I’m fond of the codger, but sometimes feel that he hijacked my youth. When the other kids were getting drunk and living out their rebellions, I was doing homework and arguing the philosophies of life.

Ultimately, there are things you can change about yourself, and others you just have to wear, like an atomic wedgie only a Death Star can produce. The coot and his incarnations come under the skid mark that no bleach can effect. Nothing for it but to ride the geriatric wave.

Wedged in the bum crack of boredom.

The clouds outside my window are perfect, suspended puff-balls. They look like the clouds in Pixar films, or like the cloud Monkey Magic used to ride on (still jealous).

This leads me to tell you that I am bored on a scale unimaginable to the average postal worker; where the concept of stabbing my eyeball with a small model of the Titanic seems slightly amusing and yes, a possible use of my time.

I’m a contractor in an office, with nothing to do. It no longer amazes me that companies spend a fortune keeping me tied to a desk with sticky tape and apathy, when they have nothing for me. I’m the human security blanket of the executive set – we need you in case something comes up! God forbid, we actually do these tasks ourselves. Look busy, minion.

I believe I have some understanding of how a Storm Trooper feels – interchangeable, expendable and (somewhat unwisely) armed. I too am shiny and pastey white.

My boss is an immaculately-tailored German with the attention span of a three-year-old on crack. He speaks like Arnold Schwarzenegger which, strangely, is one of the few upsides. He’s alright, in that he isn’t a misogynist sociopath who goes through my bin at night.

Way to set the bar low, Storm Trooper.

Meanwhile, I truly believe the guy next to me is ripe for joining a cult. He pretty much adopts anything people tell him to (which ironically means he will be CEO one day). He went to a ‘lean six sigma’ course last week and returned like the prodigal son of Tom Cruise (à la Scientology video). He even has a system for how to show people love.

“My mum likes ‘gifts of service’, but my wife prefers ‘quality time’ and ‘words of affirmation’”.

Way to take the romance out of it there, tiger.

In other news, I’ve become very adept at Spider Solitaire and I have to say, my self-applied French manicure looks the shizzle. However, it has also highlighted the fact that my hands may look alike, but have vastly different capabilities. Namely, trying to paint my nails with my left hand was like trying to control a water hose at full blast. It’s clear that I’ve neglected my left hand all these years, and now it’s as rebellious as my favourite undies on wash day.

%d bloggers like this: