broadly defined

can’t remember the first time. broadly defined. can’t remember the most recent, broadly…well, of course i can. but what is broad and what is defined? almost chained your own gates there, lad. must do better with…repeated memes. i do wonder what stock phrases settle in the mind. you never known how prepared you must be to answer questions even they weren’t expecting to ask. as brittle as a banknote. and as obvious as clouds. and anyway, from there to…where? broadly…ah you that’s not permitted. rules of the forum. you’ve got to respect…guidelines.

so there are narrative strings to be pulled. i worried about yesterday’s blog because the parallels are so obviously drawn. how easy you can piece jigsaw pieces together. how easily one can be swayed. it sticks to you. like dried milk on the lips. that taste is unavoidable. no wonder you’re….broadly….realised. then what? maybe you’re best off…avoiding…dream analysis. what this time? parents. parent. old streets. gates, locked. shops, restricted access. old fears. old coins, collected. the whole thing is bunkum. it’s only valued by fools. sometimes, the joke goes, the mistakes you make are entirely your own.

the real currency in work places is gossip. that’s the banknote design right there. that’s the weight of the coins. the true value is not tangible. it’s the power you have, knowing that some words will filter through to the other side. somethings will be communicated by the human nature to have power, and to extend that power through words. somebody told me…that i’m mister brightside…and is only adds up to nothing much, because that power weakens with reputation, much like interest rates dictate..if you’re interesting. that’s the way of the office. it’s why so many decent people preferred to work from home. who feels fine after twenty-odd years of the nine-to-five?

666

no, it’s not part of a wider plan. unless…no. the numbers merely echo, and merely appear, and merely calculate in their own…patterns…and they echo, too. and the association between your current issues and other people’s fascination with numbers has not gone unnoticed. there are echoes, here, too. worrying? maybe coincidental. maybe there is cause, maybe there is effect. the film version of all this would make everything very obvious. too obvious perhaps. it’s all an echo, because it is all deliberate. something like angels and demons, one of those popcorn classics, where nothing makes logical sense until it needs to. you are aware of the patterns. and because of your tendencies, of course you being to wonder if everything is happening for reasons beyond reasons.

i remember that day. no idea of the specifics. just a day. kitchen counter, the other side, where the clutter always was. tumble dryer. back-doors. calculator. six pounds sixty-six. how much? oh we can’t have that. tie a ribbon around that fixed point in time. it’s the mark of the…number related brain. another tick in the obvious diagnosis box. because you, too, would look out of car windows and count the numbers printed on the lamp-posts zipping on by. it’s not a coincidence. you just happened to read about…the number of the…repeated meme. and that took you to something else, and to somewhere else and to six am on a lazy morning…and it all repeats because you’re worried about the shared traits between yourself and…at least one other…

and then it all comes around to whether much means anything at all. it’s all greek to us. because the book of revelations could have used 666 or could have used six-one-six, and soon it’ll be 0616, and as nothing means not much at all, the coincidences become self-aware and we all fall down. though i know you. i know you wonder about following the same path, about the curse seeping through the wallpaper, about the scriptwriter falling about laughing because, finally, the fingertaps across the keyboard have grown loud enough to be noticed. for it’s all meaningful, right? as i say. as i’ve always said. it’s a short life if you know how to spot…the patterns.

piano man

why this, you wonder? a new trait. a tic. wind up, and let roll. rock n’ roll. he never stops, does he? you heard what the man said. you like to talk you! and, yes, i do. but not like this. this is new. melody of a frenzied, panicked lunatic. no. that’s harsh. there is therapy for that. you don’t want silence to swallow you up. so you fill the air with words. constant noise. background and foreground. piano man, taking requests, doesn’t even need sheet music. pick a song. pick anything. take my cues from the blues, dude. just keep on talking. just drown out one form of noise with another. running commentary, they call it.

funny old business. funny old life. the constant validation. the constant panic. disquiet. you convince yourself that truth is key, that truth is righteous. and what happens? a form of ptsd. a flashback from a flashback. therapy solves that, too. the melody is the same because it’s the usual old patterns. like the advert says, tick follows tock. and you know how that ends. lying there in discomfort. not wanting to cause a fuss. not wanting to say what’s on your mind. but how does that become therapy?

the sitcom version of all this would have a laugh track. but the truth is, xyz and the character just pulls funny faces. no! that’s how i really feel! and the laughter continues. better than silence, i suppose. rise of the irony police. rise of many different kinds of police. people are sweet. people are liars, too. but see the best in people, whenever you can. because what’s the alternative? silence? what fun. i’m not hinting, here. or being opaque for nefarious reasons. the legend of the sitcom, all the internal rules of the genre, such as they are. run the battery down low, and wait for someone else to feed you the lines. that’s what i should be typing about instead. now how uncomfortable i feel in periods of comfort. next time. there will always be a next time.

oh? oh.

maybe it’s all theatre. maybe it’s mental illness. maybe he’s born with it(?) i can see how the wool is pulled over your eyes. one day, in one context, you feel amazing, and then the carpet is pulled from under your feet, and the excuse of the tone of voice can be push-pulled from subjective to objective and back again, so where are you left standing other than completely on your own. it’s rhetoric. at this point i’m just left, on my own, and isolated, and wondering if someone was writing the script right behind my left shoulder, encouraging me to react. but the lady said what the lady said, right? you felt deflated because the air was extinguished. you felt let down because you were let down. don’t let management make you feel as though it’s all your responsibility. left there feeling as though everybody must rely on you. they’ve learned that lesson. well. they’ve learnt. maybe not what they had intended.

eyes down. explosion. you have the weapon. a weapon of choice. certainty? well, to a degree. he’s done what? we’ve been here before, remember. oh? oh. walked straight into town hall with a letter, hand-written i suspect. make it very clear that you can’t reverse. you can’t go back. he’s done what?! and to do that all with members of your family still alive. imagine! and even further back, the other job you went for. telephone ringing, everyone urging you to answer. i thought you were leaving…ah. well. you see…and anyway…you’re a good liar. that still stings. shredded context. meaningless, really. a pattern, though only if this were television and a twist ending were required.

of course this time it’s genuine. you need to understand that. i felt misrepresented. misunderstood. mistreated. i had everything to lose. i don’t want to sound funny but dot-dot-dot. need to understand dot-dot-dot. and i only regret allowing myself to be taken a few steps away from the edge. you do feel taken for granted. you need to remind managers that, deep down, they are powerless. they can only manage so much, so far, so few, so many, so limited. it always ends with the open-mouthed disbelief. one form or other. you can’t do that! and on a thursday, too. imagine! i notice, already, the weight of silence. but it’s mine to own. for the power, and glory, and the right to free-speech. amen.

théâtre

oh roll-up, roll-up! let the good times…roll! let the good times….collapse! it’s a…wicked game we play, make me feel this way. so now we have the new way of working, that is to say, you spend one day doing everything right and the rest of the week being punished, chipped away by passive aggressive bullshit. ah, of course, that comes with the territory. and the territory is improvised comedy night at the mortuary, where all the jokes are dead on arrival. not that i’m blaming whoever supplies the improv troupe to the requesting venue. i’ve been known to splash on the make-up myself. smell of the dust-covered cheap seats. whirl of the crowd. such as they are. make your way to the back lots, where men might find themselves hanging by a thread, hand around their throats, trousers around their ankles.

i don’t blame those who need to take centre stage. it’s always been bullshit. all the théâtre, all the spotlight, all the cast of hundreds, most of whom get all the juicy lines. there have always been supporting casts of the bullshit brigade, standing in front of increasingly cheap set dressing. those who do, do; and those who can’t….do-the-do! bitter? well, to a degree. i’m an old queen. you’ve got to know your place. more than you’ve got to know your mark. rehearse, yes. but don’t expect the yes….and! of your training. lost of no…but….and where do you go from there?

the truth is…the stage has always been set. rigged, you see. know your place has a double meaning. learn your lear, it’s all in there. if you think it’s fair, you’ve not been paying attention. they want people of a type, not people of a type. they need to register their interest early doors, first script run throughs, really. they knew from the start how to divvy up the roles. you had no chance. not really. game’s rigged. there are no twist endings. not in real life. just the acting. just the over-acting. just the cackling hoots of the pantomime. and yes, you can welcome your fate, which is your life, and all of that fucking twattery. but if the rumours are true, how do you stay invested in these storylines? after all these years? the curtain will surely…fall?

duke

genuinely shaken. i felt it. instantly. the uncertain stare. the fuzzy outline to your vision. the numbing of sound. panic attack? something related. split-level thought process. mere minutes before, a vision, of sorts. exactly like a warning. be careful what you wish for, that sort of thing. you can never be set free. but that’s fate for you. because if not fate, then what? free will, again, asking itself to be proven. and you can’t, truly, have free will when the lead is taken by somebody else, who then takes you into the sphere of somebody else again, who then takes you sideways without saying a word. and that’s how you tumble down the rabbit hole. from confidence to anxiety, from certainty to panic, from assurance to doubt. the line you’ve drawn from one position decades ago to now, always trying to gain approval from…somebody like that…which is how you’ve drawn a constant line of questioning from duke nahemean to masterchef.

but then, as ever, you don’t need somebody else to punish yourself when it’s all self-inflicted. and that’s how you end up awake later than you should, set down into dreams by worry and panic and mild frustration, and knowing that you’re playing self-destruct on…everything…like all the best plans…and how did you get yourself into such a stupid place, beyond all the obvious diagnoses. well, you see, it’s another case of wanting approval from…men!

so where now? where indeed. if not where then what? or indeed, when? because i should be confident and strong and full of vim and vigour. i should be head-high and assured. i do have medals on my chest, so to speak. and there are ways to work around all the men from whom approval is sought. it all matters little, though. brave enough of me to write all this down, mind. brave enough of me to still keep this going. because what if this version of truth seeps out? then where do we go? the whistle would be blown. the manoeuvres would be called. the place, set. the orders, demanded upon. i see only men in uniform, ready to punish.

overload

that’s how it feels. too much. too often. too many numbers, updates, facts, figures. an overload of the one thing i really like. all the results at once, or so it feels. constant. non-stop. and when that stream of news is becoming too much, everything else in life is too much, too, and it all feels like you’ve missed out again at being the go-to person in a go-to situation, being the expert n’ all…not that you are…not for a long time…

…but no, this is unfair, and cruel. the truth is, everything seems slower, and distant, these days. more complex. little drops of realisation come into the brain. mostly about money. mostly about the far-off future. put the cards into the machine and it spills out…too much data. shut down. freeze frame. everything seems confused. and confusing. because the amount of number-crunching data is too much to comprehend, even for you.

but what’s the point in feeling blue. there is not much else to do. except to just await a change of view. how much longer can this rhyming scheme be allowed to…er…skew? it’s funny. there are no solutions at the end of blogs like these. thought processes like those. ideas like this and that and everything else. money makes the head feel smaller. for people who have a hold on stuff like that. because i certainly don’t. but where else to go? after a place like this. in a world like that. it’s better off being thought of as a go-to person who lives an ordinary life. if you let people into the truth, it would shatter the system.

x’s

funny day. funny experience. funny times. genuine yearning for the old times, not that you can return. not that you can try again. not that they’d allow. nobody really, truly, understands. you act with passion, you talk with knowledge and experience and you say everything from the heart, and then it all crumbles. the breathy hmm yeah and the delayed, unconvincing focus from a facial mask. the brain pretends to be engaged. you can tell, because it’s always been this way. enthusiastic teacher-training reduced to monologues, in one breath, to capture the attention between ad-breaks and brew runs. pity those within easy reach. and they cant rewind either.

they can’t understand your interest because they’ve not travelled both sides of the world. the ballot paper, the polling station, the booth, the staff, the routine of they day. only you have felt the leaflets’ hard-edges double-back as you push through letter-boxes. only you have imagined training days where you talk for thirty minutes on the importance of leafleting. only you remember your first days in office work, photocopying leaflets, and being dismissed within the first ten minutes. he’s into politics, whatever that is.

counting of the votes. the pouring over ballots. the rejection of doubtful intentions. all the x’s. all the scribbles. all the little essays in red ink, neat handwriting, all the same. the endless stream of democracy in action. all lost now. and for what? what alternative life could have been retained? what did you sacrifice, and for whom, and why? the days of…being…respected and trusted and all for…the chance to…spend sundays on the sine-wave between all-day drinking and all day doing something constructive….the old push-pull…pretending to be an expert for both friends who took drugs and colleagues who wanted to put something back. you can’t take any of it back. it’s all time-locked. it’s not for you.

an ending

difficult to write…the script. the twists. the characters, their remit, their excuses, the backgrounds, the subterfuge. maybe this is a lesson. why turn everything into a meme. why turn everything into a parody. a skit. a joke. sometimes you need the story, with a satisfying conclusion, and that’s that. sometimes you don’t need ups and downs. sometimes you don’t need to let the audience down. or, if you have to, do it gently. let people feel that they’ve understood. we just want an ending. we don’t need the ride to slow down before starting up again. more twists, turns. rotating cast. the same old stories. a constant refresh.

was that a complaint? i couldn’t believe that question. that begins something else. that’s nothing new. the same old…as ever. just a slip of the hands. just a split-second. but something has been on the mind, and i can’t help rewinding. replaying. was it planned? no. was it a simple mistake? intended? difficult to write…because the assumption is, well, we all have free-will, we all have the freedom to make our own choices…but i’ve written before…that you can have all the plans you like and the whole artifice crumbles if you choose….one more sleep, one different turn of the heel, one bus rather than walking…don’t reply, or do, don’t ignore, or do. i wonder…if only i hadn’t…if only i had…i wonder…how to play this one? if we don’t have free will, and if all this scripted, then by whom, for whom? and importantly, who is watching?

but then you have to snap your fingers. break the spell of this wander. crack through the thin layer of burnt sugar in this particular crème brûlée because that way means paranoia, personality disorder, all sorts of fucking exhausting script developments. so yes, i spent a week or so rehearsing want i felt needed saying. and then fate/fortune/free-will/someone chose to fuck that up. crying again. upset again. denied again. fate, again, choosing its own twist. but then…this is paranoia, right? this is not true. this can’t be true. if it’s only spoiling my life, what is it doing to other people?

inward

already a quarter done. four months. the cold, brittle, tough months. the new-year new-me period. the awakening months. the renewal, refresh, rediscovered months of cleansing and rebirth and refocus. a quarter. another flip of the calendar. damp, curled pages. old promises. ignored meetings, agendas, catch-ups. still not out of the woods yet. still not quite there. and yet…and yet…the skies have never been so blue. the clouds are fluffy, grand, larger than usual, the sun warmer, the wind harsher, the hail tough and centred. the thoughts, of course, remain inward, remain harsh, unforgiving. all the regrets, as they always are. all the arse-kicking parties to which you’re invited as a matter of course. looking within because outward is walled off, no direction signs, no pointers.

a month of discussions, internal, inch-by-inch, retreating. retreated. to what are you treated? a new problem, because of old problems, because of old habits, because of old routines, because of boredom, frustration, all the above, and it’s not a valid excuse, because of old ways, old fallback options, and because therapy works both ways, until it doesn’t, until the walls thicken, the paths retreat, the doors slam shut and rust and age and crackle with the wind battering the other side. what about the other side? no excuses. funny how the reactions are different to what you’d expect. it’s why you should never…read the comments.

but then…and because…because…because…you have closed off yet more parts of the internet. temper. irritation. justice. inability to phrase exactly how you feel. and with good reason. bored, an in need of communication, of reaching-out, of being noticed, heard, listened to…and yet…and yet…i’ve closed off options, all my good places, all my friendly places, all my decent places, because….internally, i feel condemned eternally…by not always wanting to follow their endless rules…and what? you’re too old for this. too old for running from forum to forum. taking the ball home. taking your reputation with it. everything closed off, members only, registered users only, in politics, and railways, even digital spy(!). nothing left but…insular.