Guttural Linguistics

Star Spangled and Fairly Tangled

2009-04-17T06:52:00.001-07:00

Keeping with the times, we chewed mushrooms and discussed the philosophy of colour and shape and our perception of it. We then proceeded to laugh hysterically at our state of mind. We were truly off our kilter.

"It does work!" we exclaimed with joy.

We danced. Oh, how we danced. The music flowed through us like a river of faeces. And when it came out on the other side we were halfway through our come down. Overconsciousness can be a bitch. Not that it was heavy. It was anything but. We let it go. After all, it is all about the ebb and the flow.

The following day I was full of gas. I sat down on the toilet and let go. I entered into some heavy breathing exercieses, my muscles relaxing, and lose that undesired weight that was brewing in the depths of my intestinal track.

And now it is Monday. Grey. Quiet. And not too warm.

When will the sun shine, I wonder?

When will I bask in all its glory and be free of worry?

A New Season; A New Way of Suffering

2009-04-08T03:20:00.000-07:00

Springtime is upon us. The days are getting longer, the trees are budding, the flowers are blossoming. The days are beautiful once again. But with this sudden beauty comes a price. All of us are not affected, but those of us who are pay dearly.

Hay fever; the unworthy penalty of the new season. And I suffer from it terribly. That mild sniffling, those few sneezes, they are not much to endure at first. But then they turn into unending stuffiness. You constantly sniff the snot back into your nasal cavity when lacking a tissue with which to do the proper job. You sniff so much that it gets to you. Your whole face aches, stuffed with mucus you wish you could get rid of but just can't. The dreaded sinus infection kicks in and the next thing you know, your throat starts aching and your chest grows heavy. You wheeze every time you breathe and you can't kick the illness.

Oh, what affliction; what suffering. But, as we know, it is the cross to bear in exchange for those first few warm days. Reflecting back on those first few days of warmth and sunshine of March and April, you remember the good times with friends, barbecuing in the park as the sun goes down, when the days are just barely warm, but the nights still require a jacket and scarf. It was worth the heavy heads and aching cheeks; the blocked nose and the itchy eyes. It was worth it because you knew it to be the start of something new. People say that Autumn is a time for starting over, but I say fuck that. With spring comes new vegetation and new opportunities; new fruits and new beginnings.

Monday - Can't Trust That Day

2009-04-03T06:17:00.000-07:00

A Monday night in Amsterdam can offer many things. Most people are likely too tired to do much after a long day back in the office, so they retire to their abode for a hearty, yet easy meal. They will feel themselves satisfied after said meal and unwind in front of their televisions to fill their mind with the useless programming offered by the many cable companies and broadcasters cross their respective lands.

This is how many Monday nights will play out for the masses. I know that is how they normally play out for me. But this past Monday was different. The sun was shining and the birds were singing. It was the first in a succession of nice days. A sign that spring was surely just around the corner. That was encouragement enough.

"Today," I thought to myself, "I will take advantage of this gorgeousness that is a spring day and pump up the basketball." It had been sitting, half-deflated, in my closet for what seemed like months, and in anticipation of the days to follow, I decided to fill that rubberous sphere back to its former glory. And so I did.

I had planned to meet Amanda for dinner (neither of us could be bothered to make anything - that too familiar Monday feeling) and had a half an hour to spare. I used that time, ball in hand, to take to the courts.

I was rusty, that much was clear. Aside from the ninety minutes I had played nine days before, I hadn't played since the previous summer. Towards the end of my quick session of hoops, I found where I was going wrong.

Due to the state of the rim itself; bent, broken and overly misused, it was virtually impossible for the ball - as spherical as it was - to pass through the hoop, whose spherical shape had so obviously been receding over the years. And so I started to increase the arc of my shot. Rather than pushing the ball from my chest (a technique I learned did not help so much with the aim of my shot, but rather hinder it,) I started to shoot from behind my head, aiming it like Larry Bird did in his heyday.

This technique drastically improved my aim, as I could see the exact point of release, and therefore increase my shooting percentage. Unfortunately, it could not be put into practise and see if it truly worked, as I was scheduled to meet Amanda for dinner at 6:30.

Dinner was a very casual affair at an upscale little place on the Haarlemmerstraat called, "STOUT!" I found the prices to be extortionate for the type (and amount) of food you would get. The menu was quiet limited (as would be expected in this sort of place,) but what was on offer was not of the quality one would expect. Amanda's steak was well-cooked and her munster mousseline potato sidedish was the perfect accompaniament, but I personally felt that I could get a decent steak at a thousand and one restaurants across Amsterdam for a third of the price and be just as underwhelmed.

I chose the ribs, which was a dubious decision to begin with, as I had reasoned with myself that I shouldn't get the same dish as Amanda. Why? I don't even know that. Two small racks of ribs were presented to me by a cutesy waitress who was not worth the tip which we left behind. I've had decent ribs before, which were equal parts delicious and inexpensive. And they didn't even need an overly sweet barbecue sauce to cover up the tastelessness of the meat. A huge disappointment in my eyes.

The only saving grace to this dish of mine was the fact that I could have had more. The eyecatching detail on the menu stated 'not unlimited, but give it your best shot!' And so the idea was that they set the plate of ribs in front of you and ask you if you'll be wanting more. I told the girl that I thought that would be enough, and it was. Once I finished my meal, I found myself agreeing with my original decision. I could have eaten another rack, but at the time I was full. "What would be the point," I thought, "in stuffing myself with inadequate food?" It just wasn't going to be worth the discomfort I would have most definitely been feeling afterward.

I bid adieu to Amanda and made my way toward Utrechtsestraat. I had planned to meet up with an old friend that evening, and Amanda was set for a long night of work.

Taking a seat in a small beercafe on the corner of the Frederiksplein and Utrechtsestraat, Cafe Oosterling was decked out with old fashioned barrels, labelled with the drinks of old: Jenever, Anisette, Brandy, etc.. the owner of the joint informed me that they were just for show, and so taking me for a tourist, I entertained him with the story of how I found myself in his cafe on that particular evening, surprising him by saying that I'd been living in his country for over four years.

By the time I got around to telling him how I found myself in Amsterdam, Steven Shaw walked in the door. I hadn't seen Steve in years and it was good to catch up. I asked about his brother, whom I had known before, but he regretted to tell me that he had seen Dave probably just as much as I had, which I knew to be false as I hadn't laid eyes on the man for a good three eyars, but i did not question him on the matter at the time.

Adam showed up and we trudged off for some Tapas.

The Pata Negra is a notoriously run establishment along the same street, who are known for their lack of proper Spanish olive oil and subsequently overpriced dishes.

We drank cervezas leisurely and had many dishes of greasy seafood and cured meats. A Spanish waitress had caught our eye and we entertained her with our Western charm, cordially asking her to join us for a drink when she had finished her shift. She politely refused, based on the grounds we had been drinking and were in no fit state to entertain a beautiful lady such as she. We took this as a sign of subtle respect, paid our bill and went on our merry way.

Popping into a late night cafe down the road for a nightcap on the way home, we had a few more laughs and then parted weays.

It just goes to show you, that everyday can bring surprises. Even a Monday.

A Tartan Invasion

2009-03-29T07:06:00.000-07:00

The Scots descended on the city in droves. Like the Battle of Boroughmuir, they had turned up in the thousands with a purpose. Riding through the city centre, one couldn't go a block without spotting a kilt or hearing that thick, unmistakable accent. With the tartan dotted through the city streets, and the volume with which they were present (save for the obvious buildings and canals,) one just might have thought they'd turned up in Glasgow.

According to the BBC, who have come to be a source one can trust when it comes to supplying the news, twelve thousand tartan wearing (and Tartan drinking for that matter) Scots were in Amsterdam this weekend. What was the occasion, one might ask? And rightly so. Why would a nation of people flee to another country for a mere two days? The answer is national pride. The Scottish National Football Team were in town to take on their Dutch counterparts in a very important World Cup qualifier.

Yes, every Scotsman and his mother turned up for the match. Not with the intention of celebrating victory, mind you. No, that would have been very unrealistic. With a mounting injury list and depleted confidence, there was no chance of a Scot win. But what the Scots did bring to the table was character, and plenty of it.

Second in a weak group (also including Iceland, Norway and Macedonia,) the Scottish have every chance of qualifying for their first World Cup in 12 years, but what they would not be doing is moving that one step further on game night. But you wouldn't have known it to see them in town - they were in high spirits and full of vigour.

And full of alcohol. Most of them had flown into town the night before, and so from nine o'clock on game day, they had been bang on it; drinking heavily and talking a good game. By six o'clock that evening, they had more drinks than you, dear reader, have had hot dinners. Witnessing them stumble along the cobbles, they so obviously barely had a leg to stand on. "What will these drunken beasts be like by nightfall?" I wondered as I pedaled myself home. "When the moon is holding water in the midnight sky, will they take to ravaging the locals?" I shuddered to think. What any sane man would have been doing amongst these animals is beyond me, yet there I found myself, in the thick of it, as it were; careening, mooching - a detached observer.

"Hi, I'm Mark Kramer.."

2009-03-04T01:34:00.000-08:00

We returned to the deck, a couple drinks in hand, and I basked in the ever-giving sun to continue my reading. Theroux was in Ceylan, mixing with whores and preparing for India.

Lunch consisted of grilled kielbasa and good, strong German beer. We ate our sausages and I heaped praise on Jeremy for his choice in location. The lake below us shimmered from the afternoon sun and I felt that I could stay there forever, in that little pocket of nowhere, north of Kingston.

We were then introduced to Mark Kramer (see inset photo). Mark was a veteran of those parts, having lived in the area with his parents since 1989. We were introduced to Mark, who, climbing the stairs which led to the deck, carried an armful of various ingredients - a plastic bottle of Canada Dry, a Tupperware container full of ice, a litre of Gibson's finest and a lowball glass - those which would combine to make his cocktail of choice: Rye and Ginger. This man had obviously once been a Boy Scout.

He made sure to introduce himself by his full name: "Hi, I'm Mark Kramer." Like he was some bigshot we all had heard about, but had never had the good fortune enough to meet.

Mark Kramer drank his whiskey like a champion, sucking on his upper lip every time he took a healthy gulp. The guy even brought his own glass - a tumbler (of course) with no apparent markings. He seemed intent on catching Jeremy up on all the neighbourhood gossip: those who were moving in, those who were moving out, those who had recently purchased land, the fishing - what was biting and what wasn't, yet primarily talked about his own retreat - what he had been working on during the spring and summer months and what was planned for winter. Kramer liked to talk, that much was evident - and by the palid look on Jeremy's face as Mark hammered on with the local dish, one could tell that he'd heard enough of it.

Mark and Jeremy were of the few select crowd who stayed in this area all year around - they enjoyed the isolation. "Summers are great, of course, but I really thrive on the winters when you don't see a single soul on the lake." Jeremy had said as much to me around the campfire the night before, as we passed the Wild Turkey back and forth. A man could do some serious thinking up there. Blow the cobwebs off the old typewriter and bang out a few dozen pages. I could only imagine the peacefulness of such times; weekly jaunts into town for the bare necessities, ice fishing, all no doubt coinciding with the out and out loneliness that would sure follow.

Boredom takes the office by storm.

2008-02-11T04:35:00.000-08:00

Boredom
sweeps over me.
I fall asleep
at my desk,
mid-call.
"Helloooooooooooooo?"
I dream that
I'm falling
off a cliff.
I jolt awake.
"helloooooooooooooo?"
I hang up.
I retire
to the tilet
for my daily
constitutional.
I'm reading
some poems by
Buk.
I print them off
the internet.
I can't afford books
of poetry.
He's a
genius
and
I'm
bored.

The Smack of Reality

2008-02-08T01:07:00.000-08:00

Thursday night. Ridng that Amsterdam-bound train once again. First class this time. It is often in the evenings, on the way home, that I'll find myself among the upper echelons of the travelling elite. With more space and more legroom than one knows what to do with, one can relax and unwind.

The days at work seem to get longer and longer. Perhaps it is the knowledge that I will be leaving in one week that makes the hours drag by painfully. These last there days have gone by especially slow. They've felt like double shifts, and I find myself walking out of the terribly boring building, devoid of any architectural creativity, absolutely shattered. Serge Gainsbourg helps me unwind after a particularly stressful day. His serene voice, full of bass, helps me forget about the less than standard equipment at our disposal, and the sons of bitches I am forced to speak to on a daily basis.

And now as I write this I worry about dinner: what will I eat? I'd like to go out for a few drinks, but with a monstrous debt hanging over my head like a terrible spectre, I know that to be impossible. On top of the debt, I have little to no money in my account, and then there's the little detail of the two grand I must thrust forward for these ridiculous reparations my fellow tenants look to make in the spring. If I plan to have that amount saved up by then, it will mean a couple months of not go0ing out, of not socialising, and of not spending money on things that aren't absolutely necessary. That means I will most likely miss some amazing gigs that are coming our way over the next couple of months, namingly Portishead. However hard I may try to get tickets sorted out for the April seventh gig (or a couple spots on the guestlist in this case,) it still may not happen. Shain has informed me that it is very difficult to get press sorted for gigs that are already sold out, so that doesn't make for good news. And to top it off, the chap from JB has also told me that it's going to be a difficult pursuit.

As the train conductor announces Amsterdam Amstel, we coast by the local prison. I peer into the windows, hoping to see a face or a moving body, but all I notice are flickering lights with bare bulbs and no character whatsoever. I look out the window of Amstel station, and glance into their parking lot. Three white buses are lined up against each other, with the name 'Eurolines' emblazoned on either side. Anonymous buses taking anonymous passengers to anonymous destinations. Where do the fates of these passengers take them? Are they taking these buses to get away from their problems, or is it just the opposite? I fear they are taking these buses, and without knowing it, driving into one problem after the next. Or perhaps it's just some transients looking for a ride to the next stop on their European adventure. Travellers. Adventurers of the world. Explorers of the mind. X.

A journey without a soundtrack.

2008-02-05T01:29:00.000-08:00

When one finds oneself on a long, lonely journey to a distant land, one can be found to be quite upset at the thought of having no music to listen to for that lengthy ride. With only one's thoughts to entertain one, one must be creative with their thought process.

Packed in amongst busy commuters, one can carefully observe their strange mannerisms and slight nuances. For instance, the way one man, who just might possibly resemble a barnyard animal of pinkish hue with a fat snout, nods off while listening to his overly obtuse Dutch pop tunes at top volume. How does he do it? Oh, how his mouth is agape. Why, one could easily pop a proffiterole in their quite easily, without even waking the ugly creature. How disgusting.

And how a young teenage girl, seventeen at most, applies her make up hastily, yet heavily, also with her mouth agape - resembling an inbred stepchild - before she settles down to concentrate on her studies that she neglected to finish the night before.

Yes, there are all sorts of characters one can entertain themselves on the train with, if one were so inclined to do so.

unemployed. what a life we live in.

2007-11-20T05:29:00.000-08:00

once again, i find myself on the chopping block. in less than three months i have been canned from two seperate jobs. this might even be a new record for myself. i was employed for a month at a canadian web design firm which i will not name for legal purposes. the role was a simple one: maintain the booking system they use and support the rest of the staff when needed. i did what i was asked, however was let go for lack of 'passion'. who could have passion about what really was just an hr role? the reasoning behind people's choices really baffles me. and now i'm in the job market, looking for whatever opportunity floats on by. i don't want to get back into sales again, but i have a feeling that might be one of my only options. to have my former company email me like they did was a longshot. something that will never happen again. could i have helped myself from being canned? could i have shown that passion they were so looking for? quite possibly, but i really can't see how. the man who orchestrated the firing is a smug bastard of indeterminate middle age. he has a fat face and a fat gut to match. his kids probably hate his guts and his wife must think of him a fool. i know i do. why else would he make such a foolish error in letting me go? this is more of a rant than a blog, that much can be said. i still have to convey the terrible news to my amazing partner. that won't go over well. i wonder what it is like living with someone who constantly fails at what he does. it can't be very uplifting, can it? i'll wait until she gets home to tell her. i don't want her to be upset at work. and i know she will be. i was off work for two months, now i face another undetermined period without money coming in. what am i to do? ~G

overdue and underpaid

2007-11-16T04:34:00.000-08:00

I know it's a little past the due date, but here is the actual review that was posted on jambase.com:

The vibe inside Amsterdam's Paradiso was something to reckon with. We were there for one reason and one reason alone: to witness the reformed original lineup of hardcore punk icons Bad Brains with Dr. Know, Earl Hudson, Darryl Jenifer and H.R.. When these legendary Rastafarians took stage to kick out their typical repertoire, which moves from sensuous dub reggae into blasting hardcore as if the two were meant for each other, eyes lit up.

Their set featured a mix of new and old songs, fast and slow, politically motivated and emotionally inspired. With H.R. center stage, his persona, once that of a no-nonsense politically devoted Rasta, has mellowed considerably. This was a massive contrast to his overly animated, wildly aggressive stage performances of the late '70s and early '80s when the band first started performing. This night he wore white-rimmed sunglasses and a headscarf of the sort your grandmother would have draped over her coffee table. Displaying his trademark Cheshire grin, H.R. stood at the microphone with little movement, switching between Nixon-esque peace signs and pressing his hands together like he was praying to his own private god.

"You're such an energetic crowd!," H.R. said to the sold out Paradiso. The band weaved through their varied songbook including everyone's favourite songs, starting with "Sailin' On" and ending with "Supertouch." Watching Dr. Know's fingers rip across the frets like wildfire, I could see why Bad Brains are one of the most influential hardcore punk bands ever formed. No matter what the song, whether the soft reggae beats of "I Luv I Juh" and "I and I Survive" or the heavy, screeching guitars of "Banned in D.C.," "Right Brigade" and "The Big Takeover," the crowd danced appropriately.

The only disappointment was the length of the set, a paltry hour. For a cover charge of just over 18 euros one expects more than that. The punters knowingly agreed with me, filtering their disappointments into hundreds of plastic beer cups that were hurled on stage following the band's exit.

As a fan of hardcore punk since I was a troublesome teenager, seeing Bad Brains live was, in a way, a relief. Growing up, bands like Bad Brains, Black Flag, The Dead Kennedys and Minor Threat were the cornerstones of the scene. A chance to see Bad Brains in the flesh was a definitive moment for myself and many other hardcore music fans.

Now bend over and place your hands on the wall..

2007-10-30T10:04:00.000-07:00

The British Embassy in the Netherlands and its stringent security speak volumes for the age we live in. In a threatening time of global terrorism, I feel as though we will never go back to the days of relaxation. Those good old days of trustworthiness, when one could go pick up their passport without having to go through metal detectors, and leaving one's electronic equipment with a midget security guard for fear of having a bomb.

It's another lovely day in Amsterdam. The sun is shining and I'm perched quietly on the riverbank. For the last week or so, we've been witness to a string of days where the sun is shining, the skies have been clear, and there has been no threat of a downpour.

Sitting in the Vondelpark, on this riverbank, a familiar odour crowds my senses. I look to my left, and notice, sitting right next to me, a pile (of reasonble size) of dog shit. No more than a few hours old, it has the crusted look of a dry autumn afternoon. I look over and see the friend I'm meeting pull up on his omafiets. He locks the wheel and stands motionless. He runs his fingers through a non-existent head of hair and waits outside the Filmmuseum impatiently. I call to him and he makes his way over with a smile on his face and a bounce in his step.

A plan.

2007-10-20T05:52:00.000-07:00

During one of our many conversations regarding my unemployment, Amanda suggested I give up going for the normal sales and customer services jobs and concentrate on something more fulfilling. Look for something that would help me. Find a job where I could learn a marketable skill, yet find a company that is young and up and coming company at the same time. And so the idea spawned that I should beat the pavement, CV in hand, applying to advertising and marketing firms around town. The idea was that I could go in at entry level, and work my way up. I could learn about one of the biggest and fastest growing industries in Amsterdam, and have that experience on my CV when we do decide to shove off. "Yes, that’s all well and good," I told her, but the thought of actually doing it was a daunting task.

I explained it to her like this: "Imagine me: a guy with no confidence, walking into a big advertising firm in downtown Amsterdam, asking for the manager, and selling myself to him like Henry Miller did to the Western Union Telegraph Company. I don’t personally see it happening, however, the worst I could imagine happening would me being rejected. That’s not really so bad, is it? Rejection is one thing, but embarrassment is something different altogether.

As I write this, the neighbour upstairs blasts terrible pop music, and I grit my teeth.

The weekend after this conversation, two friends of ours came over in the early evening. He works in one of the biggest advertising companies in Amsterdam, if not the world. I had the idea of speaking to him about the possibilities of getting into the advertising game. I thought, "Well, I'll see what he has to say, and I’ll take it from there." I knew there would be one question that would inevitably enter the conversation, which I would not be able to answer truthfully: what is it you’re looking for? Or: what do you want to do? I could see him and his lovely bride walking out the door with him saying to her, “what the fuck was that all about?”

It could just be me, but most people don't seem to have the highest level of confidence in my competence and ability. They give me wary looks when I speak of grand plans and grander adventures. They have an idea of me which is a falsity. The only way I can alter this idea is to prove my worth. And that is what I intend to do. How do I plan to go about it? That is what I must ponder.

bad brains or just bad editing?

2007-10-16T04:02:00.000-07:00

Watching Bad Brains last week was amazing. It was the review that I was required to do after that wasn’t. It took me most of Friday to finish it, and then when I asked my girlfriend (a journalism major) to look it over to see if it needed any editing, that’s when tensions rose. Her arguments were simple: say what you can in as few words as possible. What I couldn’t take was the reformation of my sentences. Little turns of phrase I was using were completely obliterated for want of a flowing paragraph. In the end, it made sense, and I thank her for her efforts. Numerous times though, we blew up in each other’s face, frustrated with the fact that it was leading to an argument, no doubt. Whatever it was, I sent the article off on Sunday afternoon a complete, concise bundle of joy. I have enclosed my finished product for your perusal, and I intend to post the finished product after the publication is done with it. The difference just might be monumental.
______________________________________________________

To be published on Jambase.com at some point in the near future:

The vibe in Amsterdam’s Paradiso last night was something to reckon with. We were there for one reason and one reason alone: to witness the reforming of the original line up with Dr. Know, Earl Hudson, Darryl Jenifer and H.R., formally known as hardcore punk icons Bad Brains. When these legendary Rastafarians took stage to kick out their typical repertoire, which moves from sensuous dub reggae into blasting hardcore (as if the two were meant for each other,) eyes lit up.

Their set featured a mix of new and old songs, fast and slow, politically motivated and emotionally inspired. With H.R. at centre stage, his persona, once that of a no-nonsense and politically devoted Rasta, has mellowed considerably. This is a massive contrast to his overly animated and wildly aggressive stage performances of the late 70’s and early 80’s when the band first started playing shows. He donned white-rimmed sunglasses and a headscarf of sorts that closely resembled something that your grandmother would have draped over her coffee table. Displaying his trademark Cheshire Cat grin, H.R. stood at the microphone with little movement, switching between Nixon-esque peace signs and pressing his hands together like he was praying to his own private god.

“You’re such an energetic crowd!” H.R. told the crowd, in the sold out Paradiso. The band weaved through their varied songbook, including everyone’s favourite songs, starting with Sailin’ On and ending with Supertouch. Watching Dr. Know’s fingers rip across the frets like wildfire, I could see why Bad Brains are one of the most influential hardcore punk bands ever formed. But no matter what the song, whether it was backed by soft reggae beats of I Luv I Juh and I and I Survive or the heavy and screeching guitars of songs like Banned in D.C., Right Brigade and The Big Takeover, the crowd danced appropriately.

The only disappointment of the show was the length of the set: a paltry hour. For a cover charge of just over eighteen euros, one expects more than that. The punters knowingly agreed with me, filtering their disappointments into hundreds of plastic beer cups that were hurled on stage following the band’s exit from the stage.

As a fan of hardcore punk since I was a troublesome teenager, seeing Bad Brains live was, in a way, a relief. Growing up, bands like Bad Brains, Black Flag, Dead Kennedys and Minor Threat were the cornerstones of the hardcore punk scene. So, as you could imagine, this was a definitive moment for me as a fan of hardcore music.

this has been long overdue

2007-10-15T03:12:00.001-07:00

About a month ago, I had a long talk with my girlfriend regarding my current situation. It covered the basics: what I am looking for, what I'm looking to get out of a job, etcetera. She knows just as well as I do that if it wasn't for bills to pay and a lifestyle to maintain, I could care less if I worked or not. The menial job is a notion that makes my mind recoil and my cock shrivel. And the hunt.. well, the hunt for that menial job is the most degrading thing I can think of.

Of course, as I reflect upon my choices in the job market over these last couple of years, I can't say I have taken the most upstanding of positions. The first one that comes to mind is ME. They caught me off guard, and I decided to take the job for the sole reason because it was the first job that came along. And through sheer laziness I stayed there.

Once I was settled at ME, I stopped caring about getting another job. I knew after the interview that the job wouldn't be for me, and that I would resent it almost immediately. But that didn't stop me from not bothering to look for work. Sure, nine months after I started at ME, I let a friend of mine put my CV forth at his work, but that wasn’t real effort. And to top it all off, I didn’t even get the fucking job.

During our long talk, I realised that I've found myself with a planner. The type of girl who likes to know what she’ll be doing when she gets there. The type of girl who has a clear idea of what she’ll be doing in five years. At times I think we’re polar opposites, but perhaps that’s what makes it work. I’m not one for thinking ahead. I’m not the one who’s thinking of what I’ll be doing this time next year. In five years. Or in ten, for that matter. What I think and care about is what I’m doing now.

And now we get back to the point of the conversation. I know what I want to do, but without any proper experience, without any formal training, I won’t get that opportunity. There was a position for Sub-Editor available at one of the many job agencies the other week, and so I thought I would put myself forward for the position. Did I get a response? No. The girl at Adam’s told me they usually look for people with experience in that field, yet in the job description, it said all they were looking for is someone who had an affinity for journalism. It didn’t say they were necessarily looking for anyone with concrete experience. Of course, she failed to give me a response to that. Unfortunate, really, as I think that sort of position would suit me well. For one, I’d be working in a field that has some sort of interest for me, and therefore I would tend to work harder in a position that I care about. Another thing, is that I’d be learning something on the job; I wouldn’t be stuck in a call centre talking to complete fools all day long, pushing products that I really don’t care about. Yet, due to my lack of experience in the publishing sector, and for my lack of experience in publishing altogether for that matter, the agency will not put my application forth. What a day we live in, when a recruitment agency won’t put you forth for the job you desire most. Isn’t that what they’re there for?

Anyway, what I was trying to say, what we were talking about the other night, was the fact that I’m twenty-six years old, turning twenty seven at the end of the year, and I’m still working in dead-end jobs that pay crap and have no room for improvement. She tried to explain to me that my misery is her misery, and if I’m still coming home at the end of the day miserable, just like I was when I was working at ME, then it’s going to put a massive strain on our relationship. I didn’t say it at the time, but I couldn’t agree more. I do realise that if I'm in a shitty mood because of a long, frustrating day, then that will effect our time together. But what I know is this: I don’t want to work in another shitty job for the rest of my life, but if that’s what I’ll be doing in five years, then that’s something I’ll deal with when the time comes.

What I tried to explain to her, and what my philosophy is and has been for as long as I care to remember, is the fact that I’m thinking about now, not five years down the line. If I take care of the now, the later will take care of itself.

time, limitations, and all those in between

2007-09-25T04:17:00.000-07:00

The other day I noticed a crack along the ceiling of our flat. It ran from the top of the southeast wall in the kitchen to the ceiling light in the middle of the room. From there, it seems as though a number of cracks were spread out in every direction, mainly from south to north and north to south.

These cracks are much like the cracks in my mind, creating different avenues of thought: schizophrenic to say the least. It leads me to believe that this building will start falling apart within the next twelve months. This time next year, I’ll be finishing up a story or some such piece of writing, and look up through our newly created skylight. I’ll get a feeling of warmth that I am one with nature, and all its amenities. And then a raindrop will fall from the sky, and hit my cheek, running down it like a tear. It will be a cliché moment, but it will be poetic.

Now that my fourth week off work is beginning, I look back on these days I've had to myself. They've needed a creative process, but there seems to have been one lacking. I have tried, oh have I tried. I've strung together a few pages of words, but they have turned out to be nothing more than incoherent drivel. Blabber. I constantly think to myself that I don't write as much as I would like to. Time is always getting in the way. At least that's what I tell myself. But is it really the case, or am I just procrastinating?

It seems my life has been made up of procrastinations, but no longer! My medium will be Blogspot. With most likely about two weeks of free time left, I'm going to set aside time each day in order to accomplish what I want. This will be the start of something new. Something that I am doing for myself.

But the question I have is this: is Blogspot the avenue I need to use, or is it merely a street corner at which I will contemplate my journey?