Work Day

To see people is this journey, and adventure.

It starts with the preparation.  What must I think about?  My handbag and my equipment.  Clothes, clothes, what shall I wear, ah the dark blue, ever reliable.  Not black, no Sir, not black because that’s the default of that group, of those people or those people or them.

Let’s not be mistaken for belonging.

Oh, the fear of it takes me and I have another cup of stimulant activate the brain make it go faster the black cloud is dogging my footsteps must keep ahead keep running keep going oh gods why is it so quiet here my mind is going around and around and that thing from childhood and embarrassment that happened then it was just the other day when

Happy music, my body has moved, the other part of me has put on happy music.

Soothing, beats; girls and boys sing in high tones with heavy vibration through my floor.  It’s all about love and dancing.

Oh, it’s all about love and dancing, push out the words while it happens give birth to a new idea launch into the wilderness, Kate says like an arrow and we’ll never forget her lyrics and what they meant talking about forbidden love only now understood.

Each key under my stumbling fingers, feels different, but the dichotomy is that my position is numb, constantly backspace rubout delete delete delete can’t even spell that right, and the machine corrects and underlines and takes away the autonomy so it doesn’t matter as much and I am trained and taught that imprecision is ok when it’s not!

I knock the cup over because my hands don’t know where they are.

The music has stopped but I don’t notice because I have heard it and memorised it, rinse and repeat, how the shampoo companies love the Japanese who follow the instruction to the letter.  The music in my head carries on with perfect recall, but I couldn’t tell you the words because I have not isolated that part and thus my memory in the whole is an amalgam in the whole of the music, I can analyse it and split it.

How long have I been sitting here?

Coffee cup is empty, hip hurts, must push these words out, they’ll be good words I know a stream of perfect meaning.  Stop.  Get coffee.  Move.

Is it?

I ask myself all the time, is it a stream of perfect meaning.  There is always a temptation to edit myself, to redact, redraw.

No time.  Coffee going colder, reaches perfect temp, think about it sitting there waiting for the perfect moment.

No time, because each word is crafted like wood, fixed and malleable, permanent and constantly changing.  I know the words, they’ll be seen by different readers, they’ll um,

“negotiate their own meaning”

“interpret the essence”

If only I could be sure I’m hitting the keys in the right order, or hard enough, or the right one.

I keep my head down as I type, not really looking at the keyboard, but not looking at the screen either, but somewhere in between, a no man’s land (HAH!) of imprecision.

Pause, sip.  A perfect moment of too hot for gulping down, a hit of heat, my very own crack of the day and it only costs pennies to make!  Hot drinks are addictive, I know it.

12 days until smart meter, I looked at the calendar.

What was I thinking about?

Oh yes, writing.  Here I am and as I think about it more and more consciously the worst my typing gets as a golfer thinks about his swing.  My own brain gets in the way, as with motor-biking and sex, and chewing gum and writing, the talent is to get my brain out of the way.

That one, that me that talks to you?  An idiot, she only gets what I feed her, we try to not bring out Cold Logic too often, it scares people.  Wittering me, that’s the ticket, let’s not be too deep eh?

Don’t bring out Emo, please dear god don’t bring out Emo, she might be able to do the dark writing, but she is terrifying, and what if I’m feeling what she’s feeling and I have a heart attack and die.  It makes my heart pound just to think about it.  But my children.

I’m in love with them.

Ew.  SOMEONE SAYS.

WTF is wrong with you.  Wouldn’t you die for yours?  Wouldn’t you die in fire and look at them and be ok with it while the fire burns and scars you from without and sets every nerve ending into hideous awareness of your mortality?

I won’t put up with their bullshit but I would walk broken glass for them. I would sacrifice everything for them.

That’s what it is to be in love with someone.

Most people find it too much.

Here is a life, it is tamped down, kept to a smoulder.

I long to burn like fire, rise again like the phoenix.

I am Fire, that’s the one we keep under lock and key.  That’s the one manacled and chained.

I have mistaken it for rage, and goodness don’t anger it.

But it has never been rage, it has been more, so much.

I cannot describe it, but you can bet I’ll try.

Fire is the only name I have for it.  Fire is the heat of its’ passion.  Fire is the light and the dark, the burning and the ashes.

They’re right comedy, comes in the threes.

Oh my Fire I am sorry for you because you must perforce be a prisoner within, and I keep you from burning me by having you in that locked room, that furnace wherein you consume yourself, and just when it seems you are gone I feed you just to keep you alive, because if the Fire goes out I die, and I am afraid to die.

So afraid.

I thought all my tasks were done and the Fire could rest, but my sons, you need me.  I feed the wood chips of your love into Fire and it leaps into life again.

I talk to the Angel of Truth again and feed Fire.

I talk to the Good Man on the path to Hades and feed Fire.

My crushes, and feed Fire.

My Critical Friend, and feed Fire.

I am alive, I feed the affirmation of my friends into Fire and it lives!  We are ALIVE.

I have no time to write this, because I must work on books and code and jobs and everything but I must write now busy busy busy maybe get discovered write all the time, dictate maybe, no my interaction with the keyboard is too personal, too damn can’t use that word already done it there’s another why can’t I be a child again when I knew all the words.

No-one knew the words.

It was explaining patiently until I found the words that people understood.  My mastery of the words was far beyond them.  I have unlearned.  I am a cripple now.

Ah! Words, look at you.  They think you’re so great, but you’re maimed and hideously disfigured.

“I’m am not an animal, I am a human being!”

Ah, but you’re not are you?  To slow you down I have had to lobotomise you, cutting away pieces of your memory until I can be understood by them.  I have cut out each word, an incision precision, an excising of your repletion.

Yes, we hunt for exactness, precision, accuracy.  Change the subject, what was I talking about?

The circle closes, we aim inwards, and close in on the metaphor.

Almost everything I say is some sort of metaphor now.  It’s a struggle to talk directly.  Oh foreigners, people for whom my precious English is god given, if I believed in god like that.

People, people think I’m exaggerating.

Most of the time I’m ameliorating to something that they’ll believe, but in truth life is more extraordinary than that, particularly mental life.

Here I am in my head, and they all want attention.  Words, Fire, Love, Logic.  I have not got it to give, I must pay attention to things outside my head, and aren’t they cross about it.

I don’t know what I’m writing about here.  It’s personal, but not organised.  It’s probably the most honest thing I’ve written.  I’m exposed, and raw.  I think twice and three times about publishing it in any way, but I write for others to read, and that circle is important.

Oh, plaudits please come to me!

Shallow.

Oh, Shallow, you’re here.  There we are, looking for plaudits.  Shallow.  Shallow makes a me a whore.

Oh yes, Logic pipes up, but you are blesséd.

Shaddup.

Blesséd.

Because that’s how I talk in my head, that’s my internal dialogue, because when I’m thinking in words, which so much of the time I am not, that’s the sort of pretentious twat level I work on.

So, I dumb down.

Oh gods, I dumb down ALL THE TIME.

Oh, I’m so tired of being dumb.

Leave a Reply