Wired Writer

What We Have Here Is Failure To Communicate

Yesterday's blog was the lamest piece of kaka ever to be pixelated in this blogosphere.

I was frustrated.

Rankled that Monday was coming upon me with fast hairy feet and it would find me, as usual, throwing back my bed covers to make entry into another day as a secretary and part-time writer, instead of what it really should be: a former secretary and full-time writer.

I wanted to rave, to peel back the layers of cherry wood and marble that surround me in the office and see the raw pettiness of the humanity behind it. Then onto those daily, small town courtesy smiles that begin and end every sentence, purred and curled from the lips of my higher ups; very much white and small like a grain of rice and then with a second look, notice it's a maggot instead.

Peel those smiles back, too, to reveal the ever driving need for control and domination reflecting their inner life of fear and criticism. Each day ending in smallness and a familiar bitter taste that chases them until they sigh to sleep in their pillow, another $23,000 richer this month, but still hungry in the dark for something, something so close like an eyelash and yet just as easily missed, only occasionally and dimly aware of its presence from time to time.

Rant, rave, strip away all of it to reveal the pith beneath their bark and in doing so, reveal mine.

For what I despise in them, I see and despise in myself. Their bitter taste on my tongue. What I loathe in my job has little to do with them. It is really nothing more but a creative grocery list of my failures in not being courageous enough, bold enough, fearless enough to lift up my arms to the world and say, "With my warmest, most sincere regards, fuck you all! I love you, truly I do, but I'm tired of being afraid of what you might think of me, of my thoughts, of how I consistently do things sideways and sometimes end up satisfactorily anyway, even by your capricious judgements and fluid standards. So long, good luck, and thanks for all the coffee."

In that vein, I've decided to slog harder, to write more, and to be more -- much more -- grateful. For as I sit here and complain and rebel, like all artists do, since that's what they do, I have my freedom, my family, my health, and the opportunity to change this with a good night's sleep and a strong cup of coffee. Try doing that in Darfur.

And that's what I really meant to say yesterday. It just came out in a Mad Lib kind of way.

posted by A.M.Adams @ 10/17/2005 10:37:00 PM