Tag Archives: writing

Paint a portrait of my mystery.

That’s right wood. chuck. chuckers, it’s. Groundhog Day!

In commemoriam, herewith somethan I wrote but ne’er posted which depicts the demise of last year. Followed by something I wrote in the Spring of my soliloquy step.

that was then …

I’m living in an Aaron Sorkin drama.

Except without the rapid-fire repartee and seasons of success. Just a slew of sanctimony and propaganda aplenty.

My boss is back. The supportive and affable father to us all, ’tis indeed lovely to bathe in his calm once more. (Sorry if that sounds creepy.) Such was my faith, I assumed we’d all return to normal under the umbrella of his awesomeness. Turns out, even he cannot stay the bolting horse that has become our collective psyche.

The severe growth spurt which occurred in his absence left an indelible stretch mark, the relationships we fostered now bumpy with scar tissue. The perennial loner, even I believed my team was team enough to survive what became of July (aka Julygate). But in the blink of a pigsty, everyone escaped their wherewithal wardrobes and began freaking the fuck out.

He-man hurdle was the first to fall. Or more accurately – to be felled. Today it became official and he ‘resigned’, leaving in a hail of stunfire. More would follow.

But to tall this tale properly, I must go back to when the boss of my boss quit. (Oh captain, my captain.) No-one gave a crap about Cap, yet. After years spent kissing the dullard’s derrière, it begged the question: what does the exiting of one ass mean for their own?

Following his exit was a flurry of fellow exits. And, in pondering the possible passing of my own delectable patoodi, I surmised the next domino would fall one of two ways: either my boss would step into the Captain’s caste (making me his Governor General), or he’d drown in the political riptide and resign, taking my bureaucratic ballast with him.

It didn’t take a funeral home to see which way this granny was leaning.

Today dawned, pregnant with doom. And, like the roladex clock of Phil Connor’s morn (aka mourn), then came the slow-mo BOOM. The last denial domino fell and my boss resigned.

In this game of skullduggery, I just got skullbuggered.

this is now …

Another day, another hierarchical wedgie (to be said like Prince Charles).

Yet I feel the slow return of my mojo, seeping into my consciousness like the well-written propaganda that is The Newsroom. Dancing into my outlook like a tattler ‘n tap shoes ‘n’ top hat. Creepin’ up the back stairs like a furtive Fratelli. (I could go on.)

Today marks the end of a month-long holiday with my fam. It was grandiose, my friends. Equal measures angst, sanity and comedy. Like a Jewish soup, if you will.

Or a clown car.

The world is bigger among my kindred, where they hear each word I speak without need of amplification. I hear myself better too. Suddenly, dreams scribbled in crayon on the mosaic, prosaic surfaces of my psyche become riotous masterpieces, full of colour and promise. And upon return to routine, like a coma patient waking to discover themselves anew, my life is starkly apparent in all its wasted and waiting potential.

“Please don’t kill me! I’ve got so much to give!” – Howard Moon

Of course I knew all of this before I set out in my ruby slippers, toting my proverbial Toto. But nothing quiets the screams of flying monkeys so well as people who just. get you.

As a result, I return to work resolute and recalcitrant. Unknowing if they’ve found me out, yet uncaring. I hereby lift my metaphorical skirt to the public (not to be mistaken with pubic) once more, mid-plot in my escape from this malaise and its mercenaries. [Insert fist bump here.]

Trapped in a glass case of emotion.

There’s a disturbance in the force. Can you feel it?

Today, I went out to lunch with my ‘team’ – an awkward, alcoholic affair with sharks aplenty. For one denial day, we aspired not to be co-workers, just co-people. 

What the fuck was I thinking? Through a sea of red flags I waded, over the hill of hierarchy and down, down, deep into the valley of the dolts. I knew better, sure I did. But they dressed that slaughter up real purdy, they did.

Contributing factors to my dubitable downfall? The workplace – particularly Oliver Stone of late. The players – an assortment of assholes. The Japanese earthquake – which knocked the earth off its axis by 6.5 inches in March 2011. And – one wired Wuc.

Wired like Steve Buscemi on emotional yam-yam. White Lotus. Shanghai Sally, see.

If only that was the story’s end. A pint of awkward, with a wedgie chaser. If only, my friends.

Instead, after dodging a milieu of missiles aimed squarely at my Wuccan head, came the corker. An unsubstantiated second where I gleaned that maybe. Just maybe. One of them knows about my blog. This, here, fucken blog. If he knows, the gunslingers know. If he knows, it’s just a matter of time before my team knows. And so on, and fuck forth.

I could be wrong, but what if I’m not? What if. I’m. not.

One moment, I was standing in the empty basement of my surreptitious safe house. The next, I turn to discover forty-five pounds of C4 strapped to my load-bearing walls, wired to blow. If one went, so would the lot. A domino effect of co-people that’d level me in seconds.

To say I crapped my shorts would be an understatement. (Have you seen Trainspotting?)

And so, it pains me to temporarily say, I’ve changed my blog to private. Oh so temporarily! Until I can find proverbial patient zero and stay the spread of scourge, I feel I must. Hearty apologies, my compadres. Hearty apols. I hope you won’t abandon ship in my absence, for I promise to return to public before I next post. As soon as I goddamn can.

Watch this retroactive space.

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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