About three weeks, that’s how long I will have worked at Commercial Translation Centre. That’s how long I managed to survive in an office job. I’m extremely happy that I’ll quit though; the job is so grey and boring and I’m too pretty and young to be staring at a screen like this for the next couple of years. It would mean a standstill and that is about the last thing I ever envisaged for myself. I strive for progress, continuously, and standing still equals going backwards (which may satisfy the narrow-minded bed-wetting conservative, but not a bed-wetting Timpeltje). I’m writing my letter os resignation tonight. Then I will subscribe to the freelancer’s website and do freelance work more seriously. That will clear my financial worries for the rest of the year.
Other than that, I just want to enjoy my Sunday. I may go to the beach, it’s just so hot today!
How my voice kept changing,
I wonder which of all those voices
will finally prevail, a voice asks
“Do I just want to be a schizo and
have more than one ego because you are so blasé
and cannot be content with just the one?”
“Who did I kill when I thought of you?”
A new-born voice cries out in disgust,
and bleeds new life into my mind;
Competition between power-craving voices.
“I miss you,” a voice says blankly,
but it faded miserably suppressed
as everything always is.
Good day, my friend, Good day. Today I have for you a random rambling of thoughts that are not meant to make any sense. Okay, I must admit that the above poem is meant to make sense, so even if it doesn’t, well, it does. Good that have made that clear. I finished “To Kill a Mocking Bird” today and I thoroughly enjoyed the whole thing. I was thinking near the end “No, don’t let Jem die!” and he didn’t. He owes me his life, I could say. At work, I started reading an extensive summary an analysis of Karl MArx’ Communist MAnifesto: I found some of his statements quite ridiculous. “The end of history is reached by communism;” no evolution, no nothing; as a progressive thinker, I would reject that. Another claim was the one about the idleness: he stated that people would not become lazier due to communism (as everybody gets the same, no matter how good you work), but I am thinking he may have relied on the inner goodness of humanity too much. Cute, sure, but all but realistic. I think one of the reasons capitalism works so “well” is a human state of competition; we are a competitive animal. All animals are. Despite that, there are lots of points with which I agree – about ownership and property for instance. I’m now starting in Eco’s “The Island of The Day Before”. I am also brooding on a story to write. BIG SHOCK. I want to finish the political satire I had in mind last year. I’ve been getting some ideas that I want to channel now in a more comprehensive unity. Nothing on paper yet, but I’m building an outline in my head. Sometimes I’m thinking: “you know, maybe I’m too young to write a novel.” And maybe I am. But fuck that. I want to express myself just now.
I’m still pretty. I am just a bit lost. Still.
ah well, at least I am a poet.
“I recant my Catholicism.”
“Erm, I never knew you had any.”
“Well, I didn’t, but I just wanted to belong.”
“Really? What an absurd suggestion. Do you think I would not have taken you as a Catholic?”
“Well, you may not have been allowed… By, well, you know, Him!”
“Oh, dear child, do not worry – I work in no such ways! I seek carnality for the sake of humanity, I endeavour on escapades so that you don’t have to.”
“Why, thank you, in a sense you are a sort of pioneer, aren’t you?”
“You could say I am son, knowledge is power, did you know, in my time, it was only clerics who were allowed access to scripture?”
“Why is that, sir?”
“Well, they wanted people like you to remain ignorant. It’s much easier to work with people who hang on everything you say. Especially when you want to use them for your own (carnal) reasons.”
“Why sir, if you plan to use me for carnality, will I not be stained for all eternity.”
“No, my child, you will not. All you need to do is take a long bath afterwards and your body will be as clean as ever.”
“Great! Does this mean we can make this a regular thing?”
“I would insist on it. You see, you are still young, there is still so much guidance you need. And I’m the only one who can give it to you.”
“That is most kind of you, Father.”
“Please, my child, halt the questions and we will commence the learning process…”
“Bless you, Father.”
“Bless you, Son.”
No, I’m just going to read something tonight.
I need to take my lenses out, have a wee-wee, and take my book up to bed with me.
Maybe I’ll make sweet sweet love to it later.
As I seek for more possibilities to explain myself, I always see how limited I am in my expression, not only by language, but also by fear, an inhibited fear that something might just come of what I say. It’s much easier being an eternal ambition, I know the score and I know pretty much every aspect of it. Venturing on the thin ice that is the next step, I realise that it is a choice that will define my future.
When I get pushed into one direction, I tend to do exactly the opposite of what is expected of me (as long as I don’t get pushed into living, because that is something I won’t go against).
But love, my good sir, yes, that is exactly what keeps your engine going. Stale bread that I’m eating now, perpetual rising of darkness. And somewhere, far beyond, I see somebody resembling love and me. Oh, Narcissus, you mirror me so perfectly. Your lines of poetry touch my soul and make me shiver. Your punches are soft, like kisses to my stomach. Your kicks are strokes of ecstacy. How our love entices me to be yours, to be the ever-struggling lover awaiting somebody like you. How my ambition and my art become the personification of my passion for you. Strange creatures whom I’ve killed at birth, our passing lives are futile now.
Sacrifice in the name of Art.
Or come with me and be forever lost,
Another argument for quitting my job: I worked 11 hours on a translation (for Pampers) this weekend and made about 450€, which is a lot more than I make in 37,5 hours a week at Commercial Translation Centre. Tomorrow morning, the grey masses await me though. I will put on my most neutral face. Somewhere on my tram, I will see somebody I know, flirt with him and never let him go again.
My mind is always vivid, even when I’m supposedly grey as well…
Isn’t it obvious? I said I want to be young; my youth mustn’t age off me yet. I am still ever so observant. Some mornings, most mornings actually, I observe all people stepping on my 8.14AM tram to East Malvern. I don’t do this just to check if there are any Yarra Tram people stepping up to do a MetCard check (I don’t pay $3.20 for riding a tram – it seems as if most people don’t actually). It’s always so strange, seeing all these suits & ties (or the occasional bow-tie (the rebel of the office no doubt)) on their way to a desk, a life, not much different from what I’m doing now.
As the narrator of their lives (the only one they’ll ever have, even if I group them here indistinguishably), I would describe this scene with a lot of sadness.
What is existence to them?
In my omniscient position, I can’t answer that…
I always try to find someone to flirt with, innocently, to pass time. Girl, boy, hermaphrodite, kangaroo, I don’t care. It depends on my mood (which, every morning, is either horny or tired) and I stare long enough just to make them notice I have seen them. I glance a couple more times before they let go. As if the sadness of this scene is superseded by my desire and my desire alone.
Sitting on the tram on St. Kilda Road, I think about what people conceive of as being normal. I am also thinking about buying a new camera to use my narrative vision with image (read: artistically). Who wants to be normal?
I am reading “To Kill a Mocking Bird” and I have learnt that it is a sin to kill a mocking bird. You can kill bluejays all you want, but not mocking birds, they serve a good cause.
I can shoot the bluejays on my tram, but it would, apparently, be a sin to kill myself.
Good to know.
Goodnight & fly with me.
The days of life are as random as ever,
superfluous time that gets washed away
as the tide rises the drunk and drinking
strange fluids of a fountain not yet found.
When the time comes, they say, it will be clear
to all, but for the time being, all that is done
is as meaningless as my nudity in front of you
– this is where I enter the scene –
I do these things for a reason, I say,
but as I’m swimming further and further,
all my horizons become the same,
as if suicide and life fuck
and become me.
“Hi, I’m Tim…”
“…and I’m a Translation… Project…Manager…”
“Oh, poor guy, life can be so cruel,” whispers at the back of the crowd.
“I recently got applied for a job and I was hoping to get rejected, but… I was too good in the interview, too confident. There was nothing I could do about that. Now it feels like I’m being drawn into a whirlpool of so-called security, a corporate whirlpool from which it becomes more and more difficult the longer you’re in it.”
“He’s right, you know, I had a job interview once, and before I knew it, I got the job and six years later -BAM!- herpes!”
“Thank you for your contribution, but let’s listen to what Tim has to say…”
“It feels that if ever I would let myself go with the flow, I’ll just drown in the end – I wonder how many corpses will cross my path the longer I stay in it. No, I shouldn’t bathe in these waters. Who cares about profit when all that matters is joy?
Dear comrades, let us get drunk together and maybe one day we can meet up in an AA meeting, or let’s just start reading and join another self-help group called a book-club, or why don’t we pick up an instrument and pretend to be important. That’s what I’ve always been good at.
Sweet boy of mine, life is still young. Let me talk to you when I miss you most.
We shouldn’t be so impatient.”
My silence of these last two weeks is over. There is no need to further extend it as I am coming to terms with some parts of a routine I forced myself in. For the many interesting things I saw & did the last couple of weeks, the most unfortonate moment must have been when that poor little fox decided to smash its skull on our rented car’s bumper. Dumb animal. If it would have been a conscious choice, I would understand the creature too.
It’s like gambling, you see. It could have lived, but didn’t; betting it all to be able to breathe again. That too is what happens at Crown Casino when red or black decide upon life or death, love or demise, rent or no rent. The flashing lights of the casino are no different from a motorway’s lights.
I am standing on a kerb of a three-laned straight motorway. At random intervals, a car speeds past me, inexplicably ignoring my will to gamble. It’s dark around me. As I look upon the fox getting hit by the car which we are driving in in another dimension, I observe the fading life with a grim sense of comfort. Everything is quiet for a while until another car turns up. When betting everything on black you realise that the odds of winning are lower than fifty percent. The odds of survival were nil for the squished fox on the asphalt.
I prepare myself to place my bet.
I see two car lights becoming brighter.
I start running.
I move towards the white light.
Bigger and bigger.
Everything fades away.
I think of the fox’s crushing skull and run faster.
I never saw the car overtaking the other one.
Maybe I would still get lucky, I thought.
I have taken the job of Translation Project Manager last week. I’ve been working there for 4 days now and I’m finding my way in it. It’s very much underpaid for what I have to do and right now, I see myself not extending my probation period solely for the fact that I get paid zilch for what I am doing. It’s good for the experience, sure – and I found myself enjoying it too the last two days. But in the end, it’s not me. It’s too grey.
I would get my skull crushed in if I’d do this for a very long time.
It’s no different from death.