Dismissed

There is an obvious tension between us. My left hand, swinging at my side like a stilted pendulum, brushes hers as we walk. An instant retreat follows. Typical of my general situation, my behavior is. Look. Look at me. I am like an Impala that runs away at the sight of an oncoming four by four. I want to be a brave and special antelope, staying, waiting, and showing off my distinguishing characteristics. There would be documentaries about me on Animal Planet, on Discovery, on National Geographic. I would be the most famous antelope on the planet. However, it seems as if I’m nothing but a frightened buck that runs away, waiting in a pathetic stupor for a leopard to clamp its lethal fangs around my throat.

This behavior cannot stand. I’ve had enough. I decide to force conversation.
“Do you like living in London,” I ask, the pitch of my voice fluctuating nervously, “Are you enjoying it?”

She responds, her mood dial is set on disinterested, “Yes. It is truly…nice.”
Spotting a conversational dead end, I choose to try something different.

“I dream often,” I state and she turns to look at me, “And the other night, I had a weird one. I was at work and my boss, a mild mannered guy, storms into my cubicle. He is in a rage. He screaming with pure horror and begins to ransack my desk, messing my papers and throwing my stationary all over the carpet. He lifts my stapler and hurls it with full force against the thin wall of the cubicle. The flying stapler crashes through the Formica, and all of a sudden, there’s this stapler-shaped hole in the wall.”

She stares at me, expectant.
With a piercing look deep into her sky-blue eyes, I say to her, “That’s it. That’s my dream.”
She breaks my gaze and walks away.
I stand on the grey pavement for a few moments, watching as she drifts away like a wispy cloud.

Finally, my impala instincts kick in. I turn around and walk towards the tube station, alone.

Petty Complaint

On a scorcher of a summer's eve
i toss and turn in bed
mosquitoes buzz around my ear
and feed on me like bread
my blanket damp with lightest sweat
my pillow squashed and tight
the cool breeze is locked outside
on this warm, african night.

These vampire bugs keep me awake
as they fly loudly, on and on,
I make out their fangs, so long and white,
and crush them till they're gone.
They leave a small yet poignant mark,
their blood it stains my sheet,
Their demise truly amuses me,
as they are dying in the heat.

Satisfied, I close my eyes
and begin to drift away,
the shadow overwhelms me,
and I lose another day.

An as-yet untitled start

Blogger's Note - This is a start of a short story. It has no name, and, at this moment, it has no point either. But hopefully, the point will be made in the very near future. Watch this space...

I see it for the first time in the national gallery in London. It’s a Monet. I remember now, I love that painting. His wispy brushstrokes give vivid life to a relaxed group of French dandies, garbed in brown and white dress suits. Their closed parasols lying purposeless on the emerald grass beside them, they sit on the banks of the Seine gazing out towards the setting sun. Young children frolic in and around the adults, their junior coat tails dangling behind them as they sprint around, laughing, loving life, immersed in the joys of a late summer afternoon.

I’m lucky enough to see this painting live, up close and personal. I sit in the most grandiose wooden bench that I have ever laid my eyes on, its purple leather seat and 18th century Austrian armrests providing more than ample comfort. In front of me, a female art warden, middle aged with graying brown hair, glides around the room in her uniform, maroon sleeveless jersey over long white shirt, sticking closely to the walls. She uses her kinetic energy to create the impenetrable force field that enables her mission: the protection of art from grubby hands, hidden vandals, Thomas Crown and whatever other threat she imagines.

Eventually, I get up from my luxurious seat and, slowly, draw myself away from the Monet. As my move towards the next room begins to pick up pace, my eyes are captured by a petite frame. Inside the frame, a face looks back to me, deformed by its post-impressionist creator. I shuffle towards it. Suddenly, a group of unruly schoolchildren stream past me likes a school of dolphins. Close together as they go through the narrow doorway, then they pass through and spread out like split atoms, covering the length and breadth of the room with bustling activity. They move in threes, rushing each to a separate painting. Look for a second and move – frames of art like frames on a film reel, yet no sound, no music or explanation.

My focus has now shifted from the painting to the frantic activity around me. The warden shuffles across the floor in a vain attempt to create order. Using her index finger as a nightstick, her attempts to discipline these children fall on apathetic ears. Her forcefield begins to dissipate as the children’s dirt-filled hands reach out to caress the oil painted canvases, and to stroke their antique European frames. Panic ensues. It has come to this: an inevitable soiling of high culture at the hands of the youth, a fast working laxative in the digestive system of society.

To be continued....

Renegades of Stock

I've been in deep conversation with myself lately, especially during lectures and random presentations by the evil corporations. I've been thinking about how I distinguish myself from everyone else, about how I can prevent my absorption into corporate dronehood.

I've come to the obvious realisation by now. I've realised that I can't avoid it. It is inevitable. I will be eaten - my soul will be lifted off the teeth of the corporate monster with a razor sharp, steel toothpick, and that is simply that.

So now, the ultimate question arises. What the fuck am I meant to do? Is there absolutely no hope?

However, there may actually be a solution. I could possibly find a way to balance my inevitable corporate future, with my rampant liberalism and unfettered thinking patterns.

I could become....a renegade.

The way that I see it, if I am able to marry the inevitability of my fate with my tendency to ask the most ridiculous questions, I might be able to maintain the level of individuality that is so blatantly important to me. However, this decision could also be damaging - I would now choose to be a corporate rebel - someone who is unquestionably trapped inside the machine, yet fucks with people anyway.

This is dangerous thinking. Its dangerous for me, dangerous for my future, dangerous for everything. However, it may be the only corporate positionality that I feel truly comfortable with. It could possibly be my only hope of dealing with the difficult quandary that appears before me at this point in my life.

It seems as if I choose a life of violence.

Much better...

1 Line Post

I am not capable of a complex rambling right now.