Storyclash

Ever dreamt that you were offered your dream house, to live in rent free, but you had to give in to the dark side – literally. An officer in the Imperial Army in exchange for self-closing drawers?

It’s been an interesting week.  A week of clashes.  Between the old me, the new me and the whatever me.  On Monday, I did whatever the business equivalent of ‘not turning up at a friend’s gig because you don’t want to bump into old bandmates’ is, which was a little sad – in both senses.  But I guess I skipped the ‘getting over yourself’ classes at school.  Probably had my nose in a book.  A book about people who don’t get over themselves.  Or short stories about shitlists and wishlists and global mofo domination.  But not shitwishing or lists of lists.  You only buy those books as stocking fillers.  Anyhoo, I digress. Quelle surprise.This being the modern age, I got to watch.  To observe from afar.  To make up little stories and try and fail to keep on the right side of cynicism.  I guess the cynic is really the English equivalent of al these other demons that I burble on about in this blog, it’s just that there isn’t a literary tradition built up around it.  After all, there’s nothing mythic or heroic about overcoming cynicism.  It just means you stop reading the papers.  Or listening to Radio 4.  And thinking more than four nanometres deep on the subject, I suppose that cynicism really stems from a lack of confidence.

Anyhoo.  I got my knickers in a twist – an expression I’ve never really understood.  But then, for the most part, I don’t wear knickers, so I don’t really understand how one would twist them.  Or why that might matter.  I mean – it’s not as if knickers are a complicated piece of machinery or involve dressing-workflow-issues such as zips, belts, velcro, buttons or for that matter, which way out they are. But anyway, my mo jo was a no show.  Or rather, it turned up, had a look at the washing instructions and decided to go back under its duvet and wake me up when the next repeat showing of the Breakfast Club is on.  That kind of thing.

The rest of the week has been characterised by talking to or avoiding talking to generations, mostly men one or two generations above me, that either want me to sharpen up or sharpen them up.  It’s funny how the same issues come up time and time again.  It’s almost like it’s me.  Like there’s a ‘me’.  One of the critical things, and things I criticise myself most for, is a lack of voice.  But it’s there.  My flaws are consistent.  My strengths erratic.  I am a gardener, and my garden is stocked with ‘ifonlies’.  Or was stocked, until the killer mutant ants of frustration formed into a massive ant-borg-cube and filled my garden with little twitching antennae instead.  It’s quite crowded out there.

Hmm.  I’ve wandered about a bit on this post.  I started off thinking about clashes, juxtapostions, what ifs.  There were many little moments this week were I was conscious that I was making decisions that would change things, subtly, perhaps not too importantly, but they did.  And not necessarily for the better.

Which is probably why I ended up dreaming last night that F and I were given the opportunity to live in a dream house (well, it was a dream apartment in a dream house, in a dream, but you get the gist), but the conditions imposed were that we had to play the part of one of the officers on the bridge of the Death Star from Star Wars.  This is what happens when you watch too many James Earl Jones mashups on Youtube, read about Wookey Hole advertising for a live in £50k pa (pro rata) witch and fall asleep during a property development programme.

Right.  And with that nonsense out of my head, I can now Really Get On With Things.

l.  Although I guess being well adjusted and level headed would mean I’d have to change my name to Biff or Drew or Sausagedunker.

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