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.

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.