I'm feeling a little disgruntled. Like a pig that's lost it's voice. Sugar doesn't help. Neither does the Vaseline.
Yesterday, I turned on the TV so that I could turn my self off while I went about my morning ablations. As I flicked through the selections looking for something suitably mind-numbing to dress by, I noticed that certain channels were not working. So I did the most technical thing a person can do. I reset the satellite receiver. Then I turned on the TV and sighed in dismay as the channels still displayed it's invaluable error message that only acne-faced kids with multiple acronyms following their names can decipher - Error: 002. Then I checked the signal strength. A green bar and a deafening tone that scared the Jesus out of the cat, screamed that it was at 97%. Great. This helps. A lot. So I did the next best technical thing I was capable off. I went outside and stared at the satellite dish. Maybe if I glared at it long enough it would reach out and touch the thing-a-ma-jig that supposedly circles the earth a zillion miles away and send that all important signal back to my receiver. I have to practice my telekinesis a little more. I think I fell asleep during that class.
Plan C. Go online and chat with Preston H from Brno. It went something like this:
me: Hello, a few of my television channels are not working. I get most, but a few of the specialty channels are blank. Preston H: Hello and thank you for contacting your [Almighty, Omnipotent, Omnipresent, Satellite Television Provider] can you press and hold down the power button please. me: I already did that about 10 minutes ago Insert long pause here. Seems that my answer did not compute with Preston H's Problem Resolution Procedure flow chart Preston H: do you have an error code me: Error 002. I checked the signal strength and it's at 97%. Insert another long pause. Now he's flipping through pages furiously Preston H: let me access your account. another long pause. So long that I had time to think. And then it struck me. Last night, I powered off the second satellite receiver in the basement. The one with the authentication card in it. So I run downstairs, power the box on, turn on the TV and Presto! we have contact!. I run upstairs, check the chat window, still no response, reset the second box, and Voila!!! we have a signal. Return back to the laptop me: The channels are working now. Preston H: That's good. Thank you for subscribing to [Almighty, Omnipotent, Omnipresent, Satellite Television Provider]. Is there anything else I can help you with today? me: no
I want Preston H's job. I want to look at a flow chart with arrows that say If, Yes, No. I don't want the 35 + emails a day. Or 2 hour conference calls with Action Items, Power Point decks & spreadsheets with embedded macros. Nor the 10-11 hour days for 5 days a week just so I can have the weekend off. I do not want accountability, to-do's, BAU's & DOU's. I'd like to take Change Management and Incident Management and de-briefs and place them in a rocket to space. Powered by synergies and deliverables. All I want is to follow the arrows, like paint-by-numbers or follow the dots until a clown face appears in all it's grinning glory.
I am listless. I need a list. There is a temporary injunction against order in my life. I scrubbed the toilet, the bath tub, the sink. I got down on my knees and wiped the ceramic floor. I vacuumed, fixed the vacuum cleaner, replaced three old electric outlets with new black ones. I've shoveled the driveway and the back yard terrace. His hair was white as snow. It's a biblical reference to purity and light. Why do these ecclesiastical thoughts pop into my head at seemingly the most curios times.
I swept the hardwood floors, cleaned the furnace air filters and the litter box. I went shopping for groceries, but since I did not have a list, I wondered up and down each aisle like a misguided grocery ranger staring at each item with a mixture of suspicion and awe. Why are there so many different types of cream of corn? Have you seen the selection of yogurts? I am convinced there is a dairy conspiracy. Are we being milked?
Mr Grey Pants is a purring, vibrating hot water bottle. It's cold outside. It is cold inside too. The temperature outside is plummeting like a hawk towards some unfortunate prey. It warmed up enough to melt most of the snow off the roads. But now the wind screams like a banshee in heat as it tries desperately to claw it's way between the crack in the door frame. It's the same wind that's driving a cold front, flogging the air mercilessly to sub-zero temperatures. I suppose I should get up and fix the door it but it's not on the list. Besides, the cat is too comfortable. But not as comfortable or warm as her presence. I call her my shadow. Shadows exist only in the presence of light. A light that shines simply when the phone rings at odd times and her voice breaths hello. I have to make an appointment for an oil change and cancel another appointment. I have a blood test some time this week. I forgot to pickup cream for coffee and razor blades. I need a list.
5.For those who live according to the flesh set their minds on the things of the flesh, but those who live according to the Spirit set their minds on the things of the Spirit. 6.For to set the mind on the flesh is death, but to set the mind on the Spirit is life and peace.
I cannot shut down my mind. Like an old black & white reel, jagged fragments of my day spool in an endless loop. Images crackle and jump accompanied by snippets of conversations and random thoughts.
It is as quiet as death and dark as a womb. The silence so complete that the only sound is the soft rush of air from the furnace through the floor vent. The drapes billow outward, the fabric quivering ghost-like along the warm draft. It reminds me of the days as a little boy, playing hide and seek. Secured by the innocence of a child, I believed that I had blended into the curtains, despite the fact that my feet were still visible. I would stand as still as I could, trying to control my panting, with the damp heat of my breath washing back onto my face. My chest would hurt. The hurried anticipation would slither down to my crotch and I would almost cry with the insane urge to pee. Sometimes the soft touch of the curtains across my face would give me an erection, my small cock pushing urgently against my shorts. Embarrassment, stirred with passion would flush over me as I hear my sisters footsteps approach.
Then the fridge starts up again, it grumbles and rattles to life in a violent penetration of the senses. The sound annoys me. It has interrupted a rather interesting segment of the movie in my head. I am straddled across the chest of The First. Her breasts cushion my buttocks like a velvet cushion on a throne. Her eyes are closed, her mouth thrown open. Stroking my cock against her shimmering tongue and lips. The drone of the vibrator undulates from loud to soft adding a harsh soundtrack to the degrading performance being acted out in the dimmed light of this bedroom. I start to get an erection again, this time my cock is bigger and harder than that of the little boy in the curtains so many years ago.
I reach between my shorts to stroke myself and turn over. The bed is cold. As frigid and lifeless as a morgue. The sheets are stiff and unwieldy as if they were brought inside from the crisp winter night outside. My erection softens almost immediately, hastened by the emptiness and indifference of the empty bed. Loneliness is enveloping. Solitude a quiet companion until she returns. It never used to be this way. Once upon a time, solitude would comfort me like the arms of a friend. But her constant presence has been a familiar practice. Like wriggling your toes. Her laugh, her voice, her scent. She is a habit I am unwilling to break. A customary routine that is part and parcel of my day.
Sitting in traffic, my thoughts drift along with the clouds of vapor belching from the slowly moving cars ahead. Like a funeral procession for snails we creep along the frozen tarmac coloured a dirty white from the salt and drifting snow.
What's the difference between partly cloudy with sunny periods and partly sunny with cloudy periods? The world around me is reduced to monotones of greys and whites. Even the evergreens, cloaked in snow have taken on a grey-green tint for which Debbie Travis must have a creative name for.
I would like to be a meteorologist. I'd like to throw weather darts against a weather dart board and fuck up the day of the general paying public. That's how it's done isn't it?
Deep within the bowels of some indistinct building, Larry passes through two separate security doors. The steel doors hiss open and close with a small puff of wind with each swipe of his electronic pass. He is carrying a precious load balanced precariously on a precisely engineered tray. There is still a long sterile corridor through which he must walk down. His footsteps echo and crack against the glossy walls. His destination is one last door ahead of him looming larger with each hurried step. Fluorescent tubes crackle and hum above. His mission is almost over. Just one more swipe of his card. The Card.
Larry bares his Card with pride and determination. It took him years of peddling and pandering to fat men in starched Moore's suits and thin-lipped women dressed in black slacks and suit jackets
(Fairweather's, 40% off)
to get this point. He carries this Card around his neck like a rosary. Stroking it several times a day in a mantra of self-admiration and gratification.
The last door swished open with the same hiss of pneumatic jacks and well oiled gears as the previous entryways. He blinks to adjust his eyes to the muted glow of the large almost barren room.
Heads turn toward Larry and voices erupt in a symphony of praise and joy
"Hey, coffee's here"
"Man, that took you long enough"
"Did they have chocolate glaze?"
"Damn! I love the smell of Timmies in the morning"
Larry beamed. A smile as wide as his chubby cheeks would allow made his face glow with happiness. One of them approached him to take the precious cargo off his hands. Fred was like that. An endearing man with an unassuming face, his hair had long abandoned him for the deep recesses of the bathtub drain. But he wore the remaining strands like streamers at a birthday party. With a little effort, the dark strips contrasted well against his shiny pate like an abstract painting. He held before him a pointed object, sharply tipped on one end and feathered on the other. It was a dart. Not just any dart. The Dart.
"Here you go Larry. You know what to do".
Yes of course Larry knew what to do. Today, Wednesday, just like every other Wednesday for the past seven years, it was his turn to throw The Dart against the Weather Board. It was his turn to make sure that this small light weight object, flew from his fingers with precision that belied the weight of the world in it's missile-like shape. It was time to predict the weather.
Larry took a deep breath as a chorus of angels erupted inside his head. Mozart's Ave verum corpus in Technicolor-colour. Larry approached The Board...
Her pulse danced steadily against the edges of my tongue. A melody of molten heat and liquid pleasure. She stretched herself out before me, like an unfolding canvas for my artistry. Creativity spilled forth from my lips, dribbled and slurped with each frenzied flick. Her skin as delicate as moss. Soft, luxurious, damp.