Writer? Get Interned.

I write to you. I write to businesses. Particularly writing enclaves. The esteemed of words and wit.

The tendency to exploit the skills, talent and desperation of the young with little to no remuneration for their efforts is a rampant phenomena in all professions. Yet some industries have a particular penchant for plucking at the vulnerability of the yet not established. This letter is a diatribe at the state that many students and graduates face, even casual workers. Part frustration, indignation and incredulity, if you agree or abhor what’s placed here, there have been just too many ‘Gain a fantastic set of skills and experience through working in our bustling office’, Pay, ‘unpaid’, for it to be fair. Or decent.

Usually not one to become riled up, the path well trodden has been to let bygones be bygone. I have never written to my local, state or federal PM or exhausted every possible facet of bureaucratic loop hole. I lightly dabbled once, to alleviate an irksome thorn in my side (parking fines being pertinent in this category), but to no avail. I have generally waited with, on the whole, good graces as land lords and contractors make their tribute to the Ents; as one must deeply consider whether fixing a leaking pipe is of true and sound merit.

But it is now, as the end of my university career looms, as tertiary education seeks to shed and shake me from its protective cocoon, that my embers have been lit.

Flippantly typing in words to retrieve from the depths of encrypted websites, the job that will see me finally rest in edified bliss, I stumble across a problem.

Internships; Unpaid.

At first I think to shrugging off the unease these words usher in. Yet, as their frequency becomes more and more apparent, disdain, horror and indignation start to well, thankfully, over the tears.

I splutter and start. Oh great reality, the system, the man, you have asked me to fork out, however many thousands in ‘credible’ education. Asked me to sit in endless tutorials as Boris expounds on how the mercantilist framework of economic organization is a clear sign of latent Oedipulian tendencies in men. An argument you could be enticed to be a part of, but not when you had no time for lunch because you were cramming to be able to make Boris desist.

And now having made it out, having started to tip toe in the meadow and blinking, stepping into the sun, starting to allow your heart to beat, to thrill for what you may really be capable of when your hands are free. To flail and build and craft at your own flights of fancy. To see the light dance and scurry, birds flit and swoop in air currents and dreams you will soon ride…

The system, the companies, the visionaries, the industry leaders send their beaming PRs to say: Umm, oh sweet awkwardness. Sorry to interrupt. That really did sound great. It was so moving. You moved me. I was moved. Tremendously. But. How sweet though. Yes. It just simply isn’t going to work. You see. You’ll be dead. Because you won’t be paid. We can’t pay you. It just simply isn’t done. It’s an industry thing. You see, we’ve all agreed. I hope you understand. So really you can’t write or code or design or animate or sing or haha, how funny, I do get ahead of myself, there is the last one, oh yes, eat. Or be warm. Neumonia will get you, and a pinch of self-loathing and you’ll be allowed the general fist shaking ‘I hate the man’ system loathing. But that’s neither here nor there. Please keep trying. You’re a star. Really, so much promise.

I scroll down, reading the tag lines.

At the end of Lewis’ Silver Chair there is a climax and a witch. The witch at her most persuasive gets out her harp and starts crooning. That’s what the tag lines are, croons. Croons to attempt to induce the casting off of reason and sense for the dream of contributing time, grey matter and blessed heart to companies with million dollar quarterly earnings because they really, do, need the help. And you are so incredibly bright. We’d like to have someone like you onboard. For free.

So agitated, I feel a compulsion to done a beret, squash baguette and sons into my rucksack and beeline for the closest common green to stir up my brothers and sisters, for today we march.

I do not seek to be wealthy. I would rather avoid such hardship. But to be paid for the zealousness that is to be poured into work, to productivity, to give lease to the ideas that frolic and bounce having sought honour and respect, why, that would be swell.

Societal and economic modalities demand submission to the entrenched system of money. That is much of the currency of co-operation between each other, the movement of stuff en mass, to live and continue breathing. I’d like the opportunity and dignity of giving it a go, striving to not be a burden on my family and country.

Dear businesses, it’d be great if you could help us out.

Pay interns?

A

It Has to be Write.

Write

Write

Write

Make It Tight
Make it Fresh
Niggling through every kind of Mesh

Make It Zing
Ring a Ting Ting
All the bawbles bling, a bling, bling.

Enthrall
For the mall
People want to
Bawl

‘But I’ve only got 1.3 minutes, is it short?’
‘I’ll be damned if I’m bought’
‘Are the punches packed densely?’
‘Oh that moved me immensely’

Fall
Crawl
Climb over every
Stone
Cold
Wall.

To bring it to them All.

 

Pipe Piper,

Your melody is not so sweet?
The rats are indifferent to you.

The Library & The Case of The Stroking Elbow.

A harried, subjective treatise on The Library. More for catharsis than seeking to allot any substantial contribution to the discourse.

I shake my head. It was never going to work. We knew it from the beginning. Back in the day when the common green was where you’d meet ol’ mate Harry. Steed parking getting tight on a Friday night, even with etiquette established and trumpeted, someone would always let their horse deposit all over the show.

Day x98a4io8x9990000 of my captivity:

Grumpily I glance at my neighbour, peripheral vision perfectly practiced. I induce an Attenborough- esque voice to champion my inner dialogue; Humanity struggles, colossally, with common spaces. We protest at length, touting the many virtues of collaboration, harmony, patience and reason that we have developed through the steady march of time. Enlightenment. Progress. Growth. Our fog horns blare through the din. Yet what meets the eye upon examining our perplexing species is at times, contrary to what is professed within coiffed communal conferences. Join me on a journey into the shadowy world of shared space. On the surface ordered calm, every tangible object in its appropriate sphere. However upon closer examination, it is a new world that unfurls, one of chaos, anarchy and frantic discord. Where every slight shift in the seat is a motion of war, every eye dart the bite of a thousand daggers, hurling the colossal magnitude of bitter wrong. A sigh conveys the languish of soul from whence light has irrevocably departed, an eyelash twitch the only sign of billowing dark clouds of murderous rage. In this the first phase of our investigation we find ourselves in a library computer lab. Let’s see what undertones of subliminal mania strike at the heart of this environment.

To Darkly Muse:

I darkly muse. I am thick in the common space of desperation, deadlines and (no) deodorant. I allow myself some moments of snug self pity. Thoughts thump, stumble and bumble around in the shadowy corridors, the light switch seems to be cackling in the corner just out of reach. My neighbour’s elbow lightly strokes mine. I simply stare at the two objects. Elbows. I am almost removed from the situation. I turn my gaping, afflicted eyes to their face. Seeking what I wonder. Recognition? Acknowledgement? I would never hope to see over apology, but something to signal the grievous miscarriage of personal space, a nod to the shrunken but resolute band of brother etiquette.

I wish to entreat my neighbour, to bring him into the discussion; There have been times, oh fellow man, when it seems best that a dictate from above should issue forth demanding regimented individual bubbles or naughty corner time, allowing for prolonged self introspection and assessment. Living with your own thoughts for a prolonged amount of time is an established mechanism of punishment, I guess done in the effort to induce a change of behaviour. How do you think this reflects on your own life and elbow?

Erggh.

I have done all I could. I have expended it all. The music still soars in my ears, my face, eyes, nose, enveloping my person, intermittently lifting my perspective to grandest, terrible heights. The strings mercilessly take me to Frodo and Sam limping, stumbling step after stumbling step, bludgeoned souls. I begin letting myself slowly, incredulously transcend that which is around me, desperation, the struggle, the air dense with aspiration. Yet the animal prowls; Deadline creeps around the room. Sniffing at us all in time. You see backs arch, shoulders shrug, faces manipulated and pulled. The only stick more words, just more words on the page.

Elbow.

To the left of Elbow, Bobby and Gerald are having a yack about their finance report. Elbow’s elbow is brushing mine. Again. I nearly gag. I breathe in short, sharp breathes. Is nothing sacred? Oh good grief. Reason chips in; It is an elbow, desist your fright. I stare at my elbow, weighing its past, its choices. It has never sought communion with another. It has never sought to entertain. It has toed the line, submitted to orthodoxies, made not one joke, invaded no ones computer personal space fortress, never once, caressed.

Your Soundtrack.

Headphones having been discarded in disgust is rewarded by Bobby and Gerald’s tete- a- tete starting to get interesting. I now commission a 5 minute break to pointedly focus on ‘but seriously this is what went down’. ‘What went down’ having been, with ease, overshadowing the symphony that had been on full volume. It is important to know when you are beaten. Your soundtrack has been chosen. Now listen. It’s all art from here on in, more human condition. I threw the towel in and settled back to hear the dramatic oratory of neighbour Bo, Ger and Elbow (Not real names, I don’t know their names, just intimate personal details about their lives). I started to become invested. Wanting to contribute. I started to open my mouth. Oh calamitous venture of a fool. What swift wings of salvation flew majestically in to stay the utterance of sound I will never fathom nor ever fully appropriately appreciate. What escaped was a small mangled gasp of confused shame.

I hurriedly ram the headphones back into my ears. Hours must pass, the sky gradually darkens, only to be broken by the consistent slamming of the door, the oxygen slowly being drained and I’m sure more scandalous revelations from ‘What Went Down’. As time came, tarried and went in that place, eyes glistened and glazed. Deadline crept. Chairs and hearts creaked and quaked under the weight of it all. The rustlings of papers and dreams rose and fell. Hope stayed for a moment only to rack off to Bondi around 4pm.

The varying creatures seemed to lilt and buckle, strive and stumble in their own distinctive ways. Panting and gnawing at productive outcomes. My lows were characterised by a slow, drawly mumble, at the safe pitch, just under my breath, talking to the sky, who just knew how to be above it all. Others left with Hope. Some slept. Others staved off what they must do by talking loudly, passionately about what they must do, so they could not do it.

Fellow Man.

Peeking around at all the others that hadn’t yet cracked; who were my fellows? Did I know them at all? What type of men and women were they? Did they go for a little ‘break’ returning two hours later smelling of thai or grass? Did they stroke elbows? Did they swivel and swivel and swivel, swotting at inertia? Physical spurts leaking the tumult of inner angst. I felt obliged to check on Elbow, he was looking grim, I had perceived the Elbow’s advances had become more erratic and listless. There is a season for all things.

I left the El Lib around 7pm. My elbow tingled as I walked home, wondering where one could buy a small hammer.

A

I hope you enjoyed whatever the above turned into! I’d love to hear your stories of hilarious incidents when sharing common spaces with others, feel free to email me here: butforthisbriefreprieve@gmail.com

Woeful Wednesdays + A Lord and Lady & Enya

Life imitates art. Art imitates life. Everyone applauds. And then suddenly we have to get through another Wednesday.

It is an average Wednesday morning. I had initiated the zany self -talk of soul and mind as I approached the great and terrible task of providing the hand that feeds with surplus labour. Holding back the gnashing teeth so as not to bite it in vehemence.

My nose in close proximity to the stone of grind, face set in the appropriately hyper zealous professional outlook. Yet sporadically vacant. As if by mahgic (phonetic spelling thanks), the mind had wandered off at the whiff of future foibles. I was frantically managing the eccentric flair that had a habit of eking and crackling out of the crinkles by my eyes, and serving you beauteous rabble, the beloved public. Concurrently managing this eclectic spasmodic series of tasks and calls upon my mind. I was sufficiently absorbed.

It was then that I spied them. Conveniently placed directly in front of my finite geographical field of perception.  Right off the cuff, I nearly wept. What I perceived brought on visceral palpitations. They, the superb they, were an elderly couple. Or frankly, just two peeps, in a relationship, hanging out. Classic, normative standard for a relationship, but they were able to achieve that which Genny-Y is el desperado to achieve, they stood out. And, irony of ironies they did not want to stand out, trying to retreat out of the hurried way of George and Nancy fiendishly getting to their 2 o’clock conference call.

What alerted me to the magnitude of the moment was that I immediately sensed Enya would have written their soundtrack. Her and Zimmer could have us all on our knees beating our breasts in affirmation, turmoil and joy at the sheer catastrophic smallness- bigness of this moment. Their aura that made my mind come scuttling post haste back to lodge in this place. The man was helping the lady fold a jumper – meticulously. It was that simple, small. Just that. But I stopped directing myself in the lead role of the next dystopian Australian biopic to hit limited release near you, for this moment.

The gentlemen was softly and lovingly folding the jumper so she could put it in her bag. It was if I was watching art. This was the stuff of life. Taking a few precious moments to complete a mundane task, for someone whose hands could not work as they used to. She, the Lady, had her hands folded, gazing into I know not what era of humanity, to the darkest or happiest of hours. I felt suspended in that moment, mesmerised. Such a far, still moment from the cacophonous joke that was my morning routine.

It seemed no words were shared. He just slowly folded. Aligning the shoulders together, straightening out the symmetry. Buses like huffing, puffing mammoths roared around them. The great din of the general populace going about their goals and aspirations, dominating the soundscape. And yet it was this scene that entranced. In its quietness and repose there was such unprepossessing dignity. I felt compelled me to seek its order, its rhythm. I want to be that great. In stillness and quiet, He and She spoke with the gravity of what looked like decades of relationship. Through even more years of being on this earth. Seeing what humanity is capable of achieving in its heights and foul depths. Moving a Gen Y’s harried, absorbed and filtered mind. What bloody legends.

Only Time by Enya floods the scene and my heart. I was in no position to serve any of the general public. I needed time and the setting sun to bathe me in the appropriate ambiance, to move through and forward. To mull this contribution to my ponderings on the human condition. With increasing alarm I realised at any moment a Brit could invade my quiet and ask to go to Bondi. To which I might have swiftly, fiendishly replied:

“No, we don’t do that anymore. Bondi is not a thing anymore. I’m Sorry”

Thus crushing a thousand hopes and instilling great sorrow. I suppose if you’ve come from ubiquitous pebbles, there may be a greater tendency to allot a foolish amount of dream reserve on shifting sands. I get it. Sand is a big deal. I was in a quandary.

Sir and Madam completed their task. The jumper folded and placed preciously, precisely, in Lady’s bag, They looked at each other. I let out an audible gasp/ sob. And then they merely glided out of my life. Aghast I railed against my cage. The clouds had arrived. The sun banished from view. There  was only the huffing, brutish buses in my view. Nihilism was rife. I glowered at the seagulls. Much was hateful to me. This was my tumult. They, the couple of peace and beauty were masters of their own retirement and it seemed life. I was condemned to surplus labour for the next 45 years of mine and the starting maturity depth of a gnat. A dark hour.

Then lunch.

And I recovered. Somewhat.

A.

A Ukulele This Way Comes.

The other day I was lightly fuming.

Fuming for I perceived I did not have the peppy bright zany joy that all my classmates seemed to exude. Mad that I wasn’t endowed with an incessant positive boppy optimism that seemed to leak with oozing self assurance from all the job descriptions I was frowning over. Mad that I had not paid the utmost bright eyed attention to the lecture, having just had the gift to geographically be present in it.

Where had my youthful bird song fled? Yes, shooed by the little rambunctious self pity who never gets distracted for long. But, I thought I had saved a squawk for these bleak emotional landscapes. Alas, my lark rise seemed, most despondently, to have descended.

An aside. I would love to make an honest and humbling admission. Whilst I type, Mozart’s Requiem is heralding forth all the magnificent glorious transcendent indulgent gloom that I do not yet have the genius to wield at whim.

It is appropriate when wallowing, to comfort oneself with but a mite pinch of Gen-Y superiority. I appreciate classical music for its lyrical nuances. I am not conscripted/ addicted to the new age. I naturally cacoon myself away from the maddening crowd, to write, I am a writer, I look deep into the soul…BAM…My eyes fiendishly dart…Greedily expecting names, words, entreaties…My phone, Oh vehicle of the community that seeks me…What do you offer up this moment? That sound lightly echoing. Why it definitely sounded akin to a text vibration. Where is my text. Gimme.

No. Wrong. Most incorrect Madam. We have no invitation here from the Bloomsbury circle. There was no text. It had been a light trumpet in the Requiem. I held a sad prolonged memorial for the fledgling hubris, however brief, that had graced my self- indulgence.  

I was indignantly trudging along the banks of the pond. Begrudging the sun its rays. Despising the ducks for their aquatic bliss and miniscule emotional spectrums. Happy, Sad, Food, Bath, Cat. A comprehensive landscape.

I walked a lonely road, not quite the only one I had ever known, wading darkly in my youthful oppression when, SUDDENLY, shockingly quiet, but jarring to my pathos, a strum.

Yes, a strum. Someone was strumming. I swivelled my head to the left, violently, seeking the source of imposing positivity, and, but 2 metres from my left elbow, a man was strumming, a ukulele.

A Ukulele.

A man happily strolled, mind gallivanting in the clouds, a light smile touching his lips, eyes shining, strumming a ukulele. Next to my tempestuous, albeit non-physical, billowing storm of student sorrow.

Startled from my tragic reverie I grappled with the situation. How was I to feel that the embodiment of chipper positivity now lightly capered by my side.

I think I openly gaped at the man for a substantial 30 paces of so, at first engaging the flight response. Curiosity reigned in my furtive stomping hooves and I slowed. He was by my elbow again, I gently turned this time and said, “You sir, have got a Ukelele”.

We cannot control when sober insight strikes, just manage the aftermath of its critical appraisal.

He turned quite amicably to me and simply said, “Yes, it’s a superb instrument, it’s fancy brother is at home, this is the street one”.

I blinked. From painting the surrounding vista with the colour palate of murky greys, and self- righteous noir. I was now engaged in a conversation with a stranger about his pet ukuleles.

I decided to take it in my stride and accept that the power Above had cut short my languishing (I would squirrel away time at a later date).

Ukulele man turned out to be a performer. For a living. I did not have the mental fortitude to delve into that enigma. I asked him about the weirdest gigs he had been ushered into. Akin to groundhog day he replied, once at the opera house, he and a performing troupe had to, on repeat for hours, perform a sketch for students of production and lighting. The students could learn and develop, whilst wavering the reality receptors of the actors.

Blessed bloody students. I concurred.

Virtuosa

He lyrically wove the tale of the Virtuosa (emphasis on the “a”, I keenly felt the strong acknowledgement to gender and power, I nodded appropriately). She and the violin were one. This moment silence, the next 45 minutes one of Mozart’s sonatas. A callous had formed on her neck due to the frequent hours that she had approached the humbling fountain of learning, practice, to weave the greatest escape, performance.

I sneak a peek at my fingers, fairly soft, of average hue and shape, no defining marks or blemishes and my heart sank. Obviously I have not yet sacrificed much for my craft or ascended to brilliant heights of genius vision, nor racked to and fro my the tempests of perfection. I huffed a sobering sigh. Not yet a Virtuosa. I rally for, at least, a small callous on a finger, typing should induce it some enough.

Curly

We exchanged names. I’m Curly said he, I’m going shopping for a hair product. I was honest in saying I knew nothing of hair products bar shampoo. His bold step did not falter. He had it covered. We had just about reached the store, both going to see an isle about a product. He for stay in conditioner and myself for a mandarin. As he sauntered further in, he turned, ukulele flailing, ‘hey girl, keep it cool’ and disappeared amidst the soccer mums, an athlete and Dorothy getting her shopping done.

They are ten minutes suspended in time, fortunate in letting the sunshine in, unfortunate for now I must never disappoint Curly.

It was so important for me to get out of my head. I had the opportunity to shrug off this strange serendipitous moment, full of Ukulele, but in being human, taking a chance, wielding a smile, saying hi, I was able to be reminded that, for every dark day I have, Curly is probably strumming the streets with his Ukulele.

I wish to be another person’s Ukulele moment. Albeit my task is harder, concerning the ‘sans’, but nonetheless, I will try. Let us take a bat at it.

Let’s all try and be the Ukulele we were born to be.

A.

Humiliatus Maximatus. A good dose.

I have rarely, if ever, been as agog at a gap in my knowledge as I was at the finite point in time. At least it was a private perturbed paralysis of the mind. Well, until now. Write what you got handy I ‘spose. 

Many tout the institution at which I study as excellent. Perhaps subconsciously this elicits an expectation, substantially fuelled by my own deep reservoirs of thought, that my mind, at the ripe age of 23 is to be crisp, agile and straining at the bit for grand ol’ learning, knowledge and progress.

That’s right you old chums. Progress. Not regress. Hateful, spiteful word. Don’t let it touch, taint or maim you. Be on the upper! Keep on, keepin’ on. Like a crazed but adorable puppy to be let loose in the meadow to frolic, sniff at every crevice and nook, because it must know everything, it must explore, it must discover. And then to be rewarded by a D (dog bone/ distinction). And then to snooze in bliss.

Whilst I seek to have a mind that is sharp, well fed by nosing about in all directions, frolicking amongst the juggernauts of ages past as they gloomily stare at me from their pages. Well, I can hold it to be an idol. Something that defined but did not build up. A beacon of success. A cloak to fit in with the expected institutional wardrobe. Justification. Validation.

Learning

Hear me plainly. I adore learning. It is important to be engaged, open, privy and desirous of knowledge, of the eccentricities, developments and needs of this world. The following is only a joyous self- deprecating admission on when I was humbled to accept and chuckle merrily (after the panic had subsided) at the gaps in my own knowledge base. To mend the fraying fabric of the cloak that I was not wearing well and frankly was a little muddied.

What Went Down

Allow me some dribble, my defence lies in an exhausted brain. I was recovering. I was acclimatising to being post European law exam. At the time I could still fumble through, coupled with melodramatic pomposity, a delicate fusion of authentic words and frilly fillers, draw you into the regulations that oversee European divorce, maintenance obligations and enforcing contractual obligations. I was prattling happily away to an assortment of chums when:

FOR A SICKENING MOMENT I FORGET WHERE SUGAR CAME FROM 

        HERE FOLLOWS THE BLOW BY BLOW MAYHEM OF MY CEREBRAL

I purse my lips and shake my head. My shame and chagrin weigh heavily upon my faintly crinkled brow. It IS a brief but hung moment of blinding ignorance, I surreptitiously retreat into my cognitive realm. I frantically scour the recesses of my brain

1) Clumsily, dramatically maneuvering past the bulky, established, secure knowledge caveats of brushing teeth, sleeping, eating and burping, the semi- seconds squelch on.

2) My search takes on a more harried hue. I leap over the smaller but brightly coloured awareness domes of where to find the best kebab shops open past midnight, the cheapest vending machine chockers full of ‘matured’ snickers bars and bashed up coke cans. I startle to see chains holding down the information. The mind protects what the mind protects.

3) My search veers left, being momentarily lured into craving chocolate that with every mouthful makes vegetables wail in pathos. One makes choices. I careen back, bumbling on in my desperate search to ascertain the source of sugar. I spy, in a corner, oozing with self satisfied charm and assurance, Mr. Lazy. Mr. Lazy is not knowledge. He is. He has not moved. He will not move. Topic closed.

4) I’m pivoting on the spot, akin to quaking at the bladder. I need my relief. Dammit. Where has the genesis of sugar gone? I launch into a new area of the brain, bulky items being surmounted, temptation domes of kebab and chocolate transcended.

5) I move into the murky waters of 1^st year university subjects. So zealously planted. Less zealously watered. Now neglected. Dried branches snag and hinder my progress, I bat away political economy 101, sociology of Gen Y (buzz phrase: ironic archetypes of fluid subjectivity?). They cling so pathetically for my attention. Fools.

6) Scratched and torn I strive to the early days knowledge rooms, cobwebs etching a pleasantly nostalgic welcoming committee. I was never much for ‘comprehensive’ cleaner of my rooms, the light dust is comforting. Things are as they ought. 15 years of napping on the job has dulled the crafts of cognition, the drawings of discernment and the see-saw of scholarship. No sugar genesis. Exasperated I turn on my heel, at present, disgruntled with my years 0- 8.

7) My panting frantic mind- self is looking banshee-esque. The mop of hair, usually so pragmatically held up in a bun is fraying. My cerebral cohesion and collective is fraying. My resolve is flagging, morose. My eyes glaze over. I am weakening. I perceive that my head house, usually looked at from afar, is somewhat smaller upon closer examination.

8) I don’t know where sugar comes from and this is so incredibly unfortunate, for my entire image, identity and heady saunter through Newtown (Insert trendy/ hipster enclave/ village where one seeks out lattes at atrocious prices and bohemian wiles that dissipate every time you step into McDonalds) may be compromised and tainted by my naiveté of where bloomin’ sugar comes from.

And then, piping up, infiltrating the abstracted frenzy that has been my mind search over the past 5.9 seconds, an acquaintance pipes up about sugar cane.

I know sugar cane.
Shuddup, really I did.
I really do.
 It was just behind the crib of comprehension I swear.
I’m from Africa.
That makes it worse.

I know sugar cane.
Really.

I just forgot myself for a moment. That’s all.

The whole ordeal compelled me to engage in some light introspective mulling. The existential epistemological crisis, whilst endogenously unnerving, was still necessary. I am not God. I am not Kanye. I am me.

I am, at moments, ridiculous. How freeing and delightful to know that I can and will have gaps in my knowledge. To strive for deeper understanding and have the impetus to listen to others. Truly listen. Even if it takes time, even if they’re older or younger, have polarised world views, differing ideologies, have a different shade of skin, hark from a different culture or liltingly speak th language- for they’ve perhaps got the down-low on our gaps.

Gimme some sugar,
A

Small Talk and Brain Farts

Good ol’ social ettiquette. Got skills. Will flounder.

Allergies

As a loud introvert. It is easy for me to confuse. Some cross my path when I am well fed, watered and slept, ready to divulge all that could possibly have happened. Yet when tired, hungry and meeting new people, I will have a reaction. An allergic one. Of my social skills. Putting on a different ‘face’, shorter clipped words, usually a lower range (husky?), a great deal more head bops and generally either too much eye contact or far too little. I start to feel my face, pointedly, in its random segments, cheeks moving, then the debacle as to what to do with my hands comprehensively commandeers the cognitive arena.

Akin to an actor forgetting how to walk when the camera starts rolling, or what to do with your ridiculous arms in a photo when the take cheese has been uttered specifically, vehemently, or your friend’s names when it comes to introducing them to a large, moving as one, not exactly malevolent but certainly something’s iffy group of zealous students or general mob – part of me flips the bird and abandons ship.

Getting it on: Small talk.

The basic skills sets, amassed over the years, ranging from safe topics/ questions to gently delve into someone’s jolly interesting past and the little zinger jokes that you know you slip in, retreat post haste, in a quiet shuffle to the back door, an apologetic wave, I’m sorry softly wafting in their betrayal- wake, leaving you, still with your sight, to perceive the silent havoc behind.

Thing is, you’ve got to utter something, that something being harmonious with the human, scenario, context, future, what they’ve previously said, which you’ve promptly forgotten, panic gluttonously checking in to all the cavernous room in Hotel Head and blasting Avril Lavigne, inappropriately being given another shot at channelling your angst. No. Absolutely desist.

The Tilt

Something snaps, breaks, gets lost in the mail, not completely, comprehensively, irretrievably, but certainly very far from the situation, where the need is pulsating with every throb of blood around your particularly pink, lightly steaming face-  Where the basic functions of walking, talking, standing or memory, are justifiably and simply called upon. This is when my knees quiver, when their sweet strange heads tilt ever so slightly to the left, the  dangerous and hair raising angle of sincere, and warranted perplexity. Why stop the shindig there? To give your chipper, ambitious mind a boost, you might as well start to transcribe an internal dialogue of their mind.

“ I perceived you as capable; I perceived you as being competently co-ordinated mentally and physically: trundling to the donut table, previously waxing lyrical as to beautiful sunset you captured, tweaked and filtered, to get ‘dem lykes and fan-faring to your close friends, complete with names and anecdotes, witty witty banter ricocheting in joyous abandon across the room. How much of my confused quota- eye squint will you consume? I smell a schism, and you are not constructing a bridge.”

Good Party Hey

In the rising befuddlement at the ineptitude that seems to be jiving over what I have been so competent at for time immemorial, that of walking, talking, following a conversation and dealing with eye contact, darkly comedic introspection ensues and the scrounging for legerity is seems somewhat pithy. Granted eye contact, blinking and providing the dynamite for sustained sparkling conversation, conducting all these tasks concurrently, is an unfair socially constructed onus that we must adhere to, succumb to. Just imagine if, the following would be zealously received:

– So good party hey – C

– Yup – A

– So, what are you contributing to the advancement of mankind? – C

– At the moment, perhaps not too much, just a mite of facetious floundering. I think it’s part of my rite of passage. It is tiring though. Not being prophetic. Just trusting. From breakfast till dinner and the meals in between. Don’t worry. I have agency. I can do washing, regularly or less regularly. – A

– Yeah, that’s sounds rather cumbersome. Would you enjoy a reprieve from this small talk to nurse your raison d’etre, work, emotional and future instability? – C

– Yeah I would. Thanks man. – A

Napping Normatives

I’m fairly certain multitasking has been expunged as an effective, productive ideology and lifestyle, yet some hypocrisies perpetuate. Small talk perpetuates. Needing to perform basic functions under duress perpetuates. I stand by the notion that small talk at parties, even bursting with all of the beans, in all of the land, can and certainly has been duress. Certainly I’ve felt the pressure to assuage my substance as a human, a great deal of education has been sunk into this little number. Oh but to dream, I am in eager expectation of the day when napping on the couch, happy chatters milling around is the accepted normative.

Sweet, Sweet Internal Narrative
For once you’ve activated the introspective micro component awareness gage, you are no longer a natural, objective, educated person, but a quivering mess of existential crisis;

It must certainly not be healthy to blink as much as that?
What was their pony called?
Who is Robert? The uncle or cousin?
What is a hedge fund?
How many buzzwords to do with finance can I muster? Portfolio, NPV, forecast, capital markets, depreciation add back, BETA, WACC, million dollar billz.
I must stop asking what their dream is. But what’s your real dream?
Do they enjoy Kendrick Lamar? What do they think of the undercurrent discourse in his work?
Politics. Am I Right?
Do you like travelling? They like travelling. Oh, the question about the ‘real’ beauty of Paris is rising in my throat.
How many times have I touched my face, hair, said the word juxtaposition? Stop using the word juxtaposition.

I know. The veritable thrill.

The Charleston

So to all of you who have met/ will meet one such as I, when there is nothing in the tank;

We have words. We have hands that can sculpt the air to make a point. We have memory. We have the next conversation topic. But we can water only so many new friendship plains. The energy, the juices having previously being siphoned off from the sincere, albeit odd, eccentric, quirky but buoyant, earnest, kind and open conversation we want to now have, with you. Yet we are and that conversation is doing the real excited dance, bopping manically, to burst forth and jumble through the Charleston with you. After some Thai food. A snooze. And blankly staring out the window.

a.

Value-Vocation Hunters; running the race with a limp and no map.

Value. Vocations. Me, oh, my.

#NoToStatic

It seems in one way or another we’re all hurtling towards them. Or trying. Or at least limping. There are, of course, the sprinters, the lithe athletes, that with majestic leaps seem to fly over the heads of the more feeble. Racing down their version of wall street, clutching at brief cases or portfolios filled with passionate dreams, ambition, smarts, so much smarts, expectations, adrenaline and as much as they don’t want to admit it, hope, loads and loads of hope. In their case, hope doesn’t crush but bolsters, an androgynous resilience production chain, churning out steps, mere steps. Putting one foot in front of the other. Even with small steps, you still leave the place you were, to a new surrounding and thank goodness, ensure the appeasement of the Coalition against Being Static.

Get Across The Line

The lithe ones. They’re going to make it in the frenzied fray. They have their youth and elbows and caffeine, to muscle their way through the horde, to get them across the line. Even though the line is in fluid flux, jostling and oscillating in size and place and demands. The line, the success may be in perpetual motion, tantalisingly close one moment, and then yanked by the mysterious competitive force further away. But they’ll keep chasing the green fields of progress, plans, projects and innovation and accolades and momentum. Didn’t you know? They were called to do this from day dot, day 1, sub clause A, index 1.

Dynamic Frontiers

They will be the frontier, they will be the new paradigm, the will be the ignition. Fie on stillness, fie on the quiet, fie on the same, fie on the passive and stagnant. I incredulously tilt my head, to perhaps, through a different angle, manoeuvre myself into their percpective. I try to peek over onto their map, the routes they’ve taken and desire to take, obstacles they’ve surmounted. Perhaps I can glean from others, a target, to stop flailing my bow around and train it, with a steady and calculated gaze, my heart beat slowing, my breathe measured, all else falling away, to know and with assurance, rest in the peace of at least, bloomin’ knowing my desired trajectory.

I’ve lost my map

It seems as if I’m scrounging around in the dark. Pawing at whatever might feel like a calling or vocation. Clutching at wisps of interest and intrigue. But what are you good at dear? What sparks your heart into flutter and pulse a racing? What task could make 4pm turn into 4am with but a blink of your utterly absorbed eye? Oh golly. When these questions are fired externally and internally I head for the hills or sleep. Sleep is most effective because you escape the grating, internal voice that chirps up at the slightest trigger; that friend is going overseas, they got that job, they’re getting married or drat, that is an exceptional photograph!

The internal voice sashays up and smarmily drips, “So you’ve had breakfast today. Whoop di doo. You have fed yourself and have subsequently unlocked the Human of 5 years old level, to unlock Human of 6 years old, brush teeth before midday”.

“So dear what’s the plan?” “How do you seek to unlock Human of 23 years old?””What’s on the cards for you now?”. I frantically go through the options at hand. Lie? No. Wax Lyrical about vague possibilities that hover on the smoggy horizon? Possible, if I can hustle up the energy. Or, the truth? Look, thanks for these superbly insightful questions, but I’ve lost my map. It was here, or at least fleetingly so, for like a second when I was 13. Honestly, I had it in my hand and then, zoop, it was gone, I think I put it down somewhere between watching West Wing, wanting to be a fictional communications officer and figuring out that you can’t live on pasta for 2 years straight. Sorry. Really I am. Believe you me, I would give almost anything to unpack with much bravado and aplomb that This Is My Thing And I Will Do It Will The Zealousness of Zeus Regardless of the Setbacks and Drawbacks and Obstacles and Self Doubt and Confusion and No Money and Boredom and Irritation and Guilt.

Frustration at succumbing to the common

How glib. How common. Yet succumbing to the pathos of uncertainty instils in me a sense of martyr- like mediocrity. Beating into our heads with relentless force, those questions of, where are you going? What are you going to do? Use your skills! Steward them for the greater cause. These questions, these voices stem not only from the aggregate mass of value seeking/ clamouring in the great wide world, but the filtered through, internal narrative. But the worst? For me? Guilt. Guilt that with all that I’ve been given, all the capacity, all the education, all the friends, all the access to technology, I can’t whip up, like a simple, but sturdy, pasta with sauce from a jar, a dream or two, to give back, to God, to the people of the world. How tiring, how passé, the incessant introspection that this time of life can elicit.

Grit your teeth and be honest

Being silent is not a solution. Perhaps I have hid behind a wall of mute, yet dignified self- righteousness, a protective layer to acknowledging my disorientation and turbulence. Like a donkey who has painted themselves with white stripes, a foolish attempt to run with the pack of zebras, I have attempted to absolve myself into The Ones That Know, who still have their maps.

Well, I don’t.
I know not where I’m headed.
I don’t know who with.
I don’t know to what I will contribute.
I don’t know what The Great Plan Is.
But I’m darn well going to trust Him. I hope to speak more about God later. But he’s the reason I crawl out of bed. The reason I get on my bike to cycle to classes I am meant to adore. The reason and strength to me bashing my way through hemmed in self-focus that so easily ensnares.

Friend.

Know that’s it’s ok to trudge on, without neon lights, without a map, without a chartered course. There are many of us, lolloping around, like ungainly vagabonds, grasping, for the moment, at straws, but you never know when you’ll happen on upon a great big bough that you can wield around with peppy joy, and give us all hope.

All about
Oh, and I’ve got to chime in with. It’s not all about me. Thank, the flipping, goodness.

Strive on dear wandering sojourner. Know that I’m staggering about the wilderness with you. Meet up for a chai Thurs?

a.

Being Terrified and Inspired, A Cynic’s Tug-of-War.

A stumble and jumble through the themes of life, work, motivation, passion, raison d’etre and those rare creatures that completely and unashamedly adore what they are doing.

Sometimes I’m so petrified of failure that I won’t start. I simply won’t start. I’ve only ever heard it spoken about once. Procrastination, that is, being a purposeful (perhaps unconscious) defensive move against the crippling, stunting and nausea inducing paranoia of failure or imperfection.

Do you know the steps?

I am moved to quaking longing, self- detestment and sporadic moments of encouragement upon stumbling into rare points of human light, motivation and resilience, whether they be creatives or not, for in them I see a fuel that so richly, authentically and insightfully propels. It seems as if they don’t need to struggle, that this business of output, this production, is but a by-product of their zealousness and passion, of being swept up in the world, being fascinated by it, seeking to enter the dance, and then, blow me down, knowing all the steps.

The candidate and the resume

I read a quirky digital resume the other day. The candidate had gone above and beyond the call of duty to stick out like a brilliant, peculiar, insatiably driven, sincerely and joyously passionate, results tuned instrument of sparkling success and profound ‘value’.

It was not the brilliance of the vocabulary that intrigued; the lyrical phrases, wry wit, achingly perfect structure of picturesquely gilded filtered photos or info- graphics, to expediently convey meaning and elicit comprehension. It was not this that enthralled me.

It broke my heart

The piece, the digital resume was the product of substantial time and effort, commendable in itself, Gen Y being purported as being unable to sit still longer than it takes to wack a filter on a selfie. Yet it was the unbridled, wholehearted, fervent desire that charmingly seeped through every pixel, every carefully positioned graph, that rather soppily I say, broke my heart.

Exactly as They Ought

I found myself easily forgiving the gimmicky phrases that so easily choke in my throat, “substantial and sustained value”, “deconstruct the market”, “to effectuate and utilise change”, for they were used exactly as they ought.

The candidate knew the fray that they sought to enter, their qualitative and quantitative were indeed profferings to persuade, to substantiate commercial feasibility. Their ideas, charisma, oddities and quips were not awash in naiveté, but firmly rugged in the contextual delights of internal and external constraint growth analysis. And how to get shit done. Excellently. Because one needs a plan and they bloody really cared. About it all.

I saw the awe- inspiring, guilt eliciting and covetousness inducing trifecta of honourable passion, shrewd strategy and substantial intelligence collide in a rich glow of ‘crap, that’s out there’. That kind of person, that ilk of employee, that soaring wonder and freedom abounding in grit and propulsion, delighting in the work of their hands within the joyous subscription to a transcendent corporate model, mantra and mode, is out there.

The Burnt Orange Burgundy Coat

The candidate would be the one wearing a coat the colour of, somewhere between the unnerving haze of orange on a Dutch public holiday and rich burgundy wine crisp and sanguine knowing it was grown with affection. This coat amongst the stumbling mass of black that all look to the sky as they enter the subway gasping and gulping in the sunlight, as one does before diving down into the depths.  The candidate would be whistling. And they would slide down the railing.

Turning a Cynic

This Candidate, This Creative, this Inspired Sport, this Peppy Entrepreneur, this Intrepid Explorer, well, they inspired me and as, at times, there is a small argument to be made, I am a slightly self- righteous cynic, I pay homage and give kudos. Freely.

I hope to one day wear the burnt orange burgundy coat, and you too, we might as well share the thing.

a.

The (near) Graduate.

– “What are you going to do now?”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   “I was planning on going upstairs”-

At present. Dissolving into a quiet, at times, self induced mania- frump- darkness. Let’s unpack this loaded, erring on the side of hyperbole, grand old statement.

It’s that time.

The time to start thinking about looking for a job. Fine. The time to start looking for a job. The time to start thinking about applying for a job. Geez. The time to apply for a job. The time to get a job right now-, thank you very much because, the parents have sunk so much money into this little investment- to prove to them and myself but mostly them, ehh, mostly to myself, that I can do this- to bridge that void, that great big gaping chasm, where needles and drugs and worse, pity swirl in a mass of black disappointment and failure, cackling at the bottom.

The pre- void darkness cacoon has been pleasant, I even chose to weave extra layers, defensive layers. I came to the end of my bachelors and promptly rolled on to a Masters (capital letter M?). Thou shalt know a bachelor is so passé, everyone’s doing them these days. Far too eligible.

Numbered cacoon days.

The months are numbered in my cacoon. 8 months to be precise. I’m sitting in class but that’s it. I am physically here, but emotionally, mentally, dramatically, have transcended and am here with you. Raving. Instead of learning, because that’s not going to help me in my job acquisition, I’m ploughing through google using buzzwords to find my kill, but my kill is fast, and being hunted by thousands of other near mania hunters.

The militia.  

We are a militia, mercenaries . The great horde of brilliant young minds that need wealthy benefactors, the biggest of big cheeses. Swarming to where the honey is sweetest, where the gold shines to blind, where the cream floats to the top, reeking of decadence. Oh Business with your beautiful website [“See Gerald, sinking all that capital into web development instead of your stupid R&D project was worthwhile, look at all the graduates clamouring, look, it’s pool of perfect pernickety panic”].

My skills are multitasking, team work and analysis.

Let’s take our shaky skills and brimming optimism, channeling, modifying, so that we may ‘add value’ and earn gold. We’ll deconstruct the market with all our models, ideologies. Employers you must strike now, harness the ignorance, before we realise that faith, family, sleep and just humanity might just satisfy and that all that gold is just swallowed by the family’s golden retriever.

‘Marketing’, ‘internship’, ‘journalism’. They are typed out with frantic peppered insistency. Ratt-a-tatt-clickity-clack, bullets that may have my bread and butter, my high and mighty shelter, my health and well-being in their meandering trajectories. I go forth in lilting bursts, an enthusiastic one day, despondent the next, donkey, clambering towards the day at the races, for I so desperately want to win some carrots so I can grow big and strong and vindicate all the pats over the years- all the “such a promising race ahead of you”. To edify the beating heart and charismatic charms.

Whether you’re a mercenary or a big cheese. What times we live in.

– It must now be go forth and gold-

a.