Little else with the presence of voice.
22nd/02/08 – 09:30 – singers and so longs
She sings like a female Elvis, all whole-throated and deep, with a gurgle of honey and milk. Wanda Jackson, and her Rockabilly tuneage, walks with me to work this morning. She is screaming in my ears as I round the corner and slick my keycard through the slot by the side of the door. I’m sure a green light flashing is a warning not to try to cross the road anymore; you’ve missed the window. This was to be my last day, half-unbeknownst to me. (I had the pondering that I might be impulsive enough to leave; yet none of the clairvoyance it would have taken to predict the event in detail.) I got to the office and was called to an impromptu meeting.
They sat me down, told me that they had come here to this blog and read all about me. They were not as pleased as some. [The rest is censored with the intention of not worsening the situation for the other party]. They told me that if I wasn’t happy at the company I could hand in my resignation. So I did.
I said ‘I think it would be for the best’ and then was told to leave that evening, and not to see out my notice. I took it as a benediction, to be blunt. No layer of surface skin missing from me, no scuffs, not a scrape.
Regardless, I feel I was, at least, heartbroken to leave the people I have. To leave those that have shaped and influenced me since I arrived. And they have. I’m not sure all have. But some have.
Regardless, I feel I have escaped. The only lingering element is that bitter-taste at the base of my tongue, that is usually reserved for the breakdown of a relationship; for that moment where you close the door, both actually and metaphorically.
23rd/02/08 – 23:00 – drinks are for drunks
I had a night tonight where my guests asked if ‘that’ was ‘the only vodka left’ – ‘yes’, was the only response I could come up with. I was more interested in oblivion than their so-so chatter and sobering sutras about this and that triviality.
And so to the future, where I fear we all must follow; except those by the roadside, or taking the long slide. Out of the working world, on to life anew. I will amble along my writing trail, by that I mean write something resembling prose. I will start to exercise and watch the food I inhale. I will start new things. I will plant a new crop to yield, when time has matured my ambitions into bright little pebbles. When I have lost the will to bear insecurity, I will look for other employment.
My life will become vesuvian-like to the brimful, an untempered flame to kindle the beyond that is, and will be, ever coming nearer.
24th/02/08 – 08:01 – the sun is ineffective, cloud proves a second horizon
I close my eyes and can see ‘them’ as they press into me with their eyes. I feel a pressure at my temples. I open my eyes and swear I can feel my pupils puff up. Hangover at dawn. Gravity has me in a bear hug as I try to stand. The realisation hits me. I have no purpose. What could be worse?
Thinking about the last few days, thinking about all those moments and now all the moments of ahead – well it just damn upsets me. I still, as ever, have little real purpose to my life. Still just passing moments like gallstones, on and on and on.
I’m still not sure what is wrong with me. No closer to diagnosis, let alone treatment or cure.
Question. So what should I do with my life?
Answers to… jensen.evan.wilder@gmail.com
Filed under: about me, accusation, connection, fired, job, novel, office, the novel, work
