working notes from the textual underground
Soulcruzer 
You are water. You’re not really organic; you’re
neither acidic nor basic, yet you’re an acid
and a base at the same time. You’re strong
willed and opinionated, but relaxed and ready
to flow. So while you often seem worthless,
without you, everything would just not work.
People should definitely drink more of you
every day.
Which Biological Molecule Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Watch me unravel, I’ll soon be naked….what a great line.
I’ve been buzzing most of the day despite my project being pulled at the last minute. I was due to finish it tomorrow and was about three quarters of the way with the final edits. But it looks like the module won’t run, at least not for the near future. No worries. I’m now free to move on to the next project which looks like it will center around a topic I find very enjoyable and stimulating and that’s leadership and motivation.
I’ve had several short burst of distractions in the form of potential business ventures, but I solidly stuck to pursuing my dream. I even went so far as to write the first draft of a story this week, although admittedly I have been struggling to get back to it and rewrite the second draft. I want to assume the title of prolific writer, but as I struggle to even write the few words I rattle out in this diary and on my weblog, I’m not sure that such a sobriquet will ever be my namesake. Though I wonder, what would make me such? Is it, as Seneca once said, that writing is easy if you have something to say. Perhaps that’s it; I don’t have much to say at the moment. Perhaps it’s because I’ve spent so much of my past time not using my mind for anything beyond the trivial pursuit of ordinary functional day to day living.
There are men of words and there are men of action so says the poet. I would say I am a man of action who wants to be a man of words who wants to be a man of action.
After all my travelling about last week, it was only fitting that i had a lazy weekend. I laid about like a lazy lion soaking up the Savannah sun on a soup warm summer day. I feel guilty when I’m lazy, but sometimes the occassion calls for doing nothing except recharging the old batteries, regaining a sense of freshness about the world or least my place in the world.
I thought the term MILF was reserved for the vocabulary of the Beavis and Butthead monkey spanking porn addict. But alas, I heard MILF floated amongst the crowd on the High Street and out of the mouths of babes (well babes of the grown up full bossomed variety). I was walking behind a couple of girls, one of whom was pushing a pram with a toddler in it. The usual exchange of chitter chatter volley’d between them. And then I hear….
“Hello MILF.” By way of greeting as a new girl joined the pair.
“Hi MILF.”
chuckle, chuckle.
I had passed them by then, but I had to turn around to see if indeed they were worthy of the sobriquet MILF. I tipped my hat and smiled, for indeed they were….
i’m going to shed my skin…
I went a little out of focus over the last few days. I tend to do that when I’m on the road a lot. I lose my routine, which I suppose is not a bad thing. It’s so easy to become as stale as a 10 day old chicken in a meat grinder. The only routine I hate interrupting is my physical fitness routine. I usually take my workout gear with me when I’m traveling, but the grind of the road takes the umph out of me. I did manage to go for a run once while I was in Edinburgh last week, and boy am I paying for not running the other four days. I ran 2.5 miles today and it hurt. Usually I can run 2.5 miles in my sleep, but today I felt every jarring slap of my feet hiting the pavement. And don’t even get me started on the stitch i got during the run, or the cramps I got while doing situps. You would think, I was a rank amateur.
I’ve restarted my 0430 morning meditation sessions again. My mood for the day seems to be more stable when I spend time meditating in the morning.
I spent most of today buried deep within the bowels of my laptop. I’m under a pretty tight deadline for this elearning module. The projects not going quite the way I’d hoped, but then they never do, do they? I reckon I have another 2 days designing before moving into the test phase.
It’s good to be home again. I thought I would get a chance to write from the road, but the opportunity didn’t arise and I didn’t make an effort to force myself to find an Internet connection. I did keep notes in my paper diary. The three days in Scotland were kind of touch and go. Here is a summary of the last three days:
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Time to ready myself for another week in the corporate salt mines, at least the week is only 4 days; today was the May Day bank holiday in England. I will be on the road this week, which is a good change of pace. Tomorrow I am in Sheffield for the day designing content for an elearning module. Wednesday I fly up to Scotland to work with my boss for a few days. I hope I get the room facing the monkey cage again. Or myabe not…they make an awful racket early in the morning.
I spent the whole of the day reading The Heart of the Matter, by Graham Greene.
“The Heart of the Matter” is the sad story of a man tormented by an inability to live up to the dictates of his religion. Deputy Police Commissioner Scobie begins the book as a rare subject, an English colonial policeman in Africa not on the take. He is cursed, however, with a wife who constantly, if not always overtly, reminds him that the life he has provided for them is beneath her. Louise Scobie is one of those Catholics of the mid-twentieth century that believes things like missing mass on Sunday is a mortal sin, but unfortunately can’t bring herself to “avoid superbia” as the nuns used to admonish schoolchildren in the fifties and sixties. In other words, Louise is a snob. When it’s announced that her husband won’t be promoted when the commissioner retires she simply can’t deal with the shame of it.
Most of Scobie’s capacity for love died several years earlier at a boarding school in England when their nine-year-old daughter was taken by a sudden illness–the difficulty of communication and the fact of World War II prevented him from even attending the funeral–and the third person narrator notes how he retreated into his job, but “[t]he less he needed Louise the more he felt responsible for her happiness.” Louise does see Scobie’s struggles, even gently accusing him of wishing she were dead. He responds, as he always does, that her happiness is his priority, and promises to find a way to pay for her passage to South Africa, where she’ll be able to be with friends and without the ignominy of not being the new commissioner’s wife. The only way to find the money is to borrow it from a well known but smooth Syrian crime boss who likes Scobie because he can trust him to be incorruptible.
Crossing the proprietary line of borrowing the money flows into crossing the mortal sin line as Scobie takes up with a much younger woman. While he grows to love Helen, whom he meets in a hospital while she recovers from nearly dying in a shipwreck, he cannot love what he sees himself becoming. Scobie’s struggles with despair are moving and genuine, even as the reader perhaps wishes Scobie were just a little bit smarter than he is. If he were of course, he wouldn’t be Scobie, never able to attain his desired simple life where he can do his job and feel loved and loving, redeemed and free.
A Few of my good friends are moving on from the office and on to new adventures. Darren is moving on to work in the big city of London. Phil is setting sail for Japan to teach English as a foreign language, and Tom is going to travel around the world for 5 months.
In true British style, we had a leaving-do (any excuse will do to drink beer, wine, and spirits). We rented out the party room of the Jug and Jester complete with full bar.
The Jug and the Jester carries a lot of history fo us; When we first started putting together the joint-venture 4 years ago, the Jug was the place we’d all meet to release tension built up over the long hard days of getting the joint-venture ready for launch day. We would absolutely go hog wild (think National Lampoon’s Animal House). It was good hard clean (well maybe not so clean) fun.
So much has changed over the last 4 years when the project first started. The sun is setting on the end of an era. Many of the original members of the joint-venture have moved on and the last of us are starting to trickle out. The place is barely recognizable now. So many new faces populate the place.
Anyway, we had an awesome turn out last night; even people who’d long since left the venture returned to see Darren and crew off. It was good to see some of the old familiar faces. I suspect I will not be long in joining them….
New adventures await….
Couldn’t resist seeing my limited vocab.
Once in a while, I come across a book that speaks directly to my soul. Yesterday I read such a book. I would urge you to read this book. The messages in it were so powerful, I could not put the book down. I had to read all 177 pages in one sitting. The book is called The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho. Read it.
I learned the art of negotiation today…well actually just the basics. I went on an negotiation and influencing skills course as a part of my new role as a training relationship manager. We negotiate every day sometimes without realising we are doing it. I would say up until today, I’ve never really applied any sort of formal process to trying to get something, be it money, resources, or time from anyone. My usual habits is to walk into a meeting lay my position on the table and hope for the best. But there is much more to the game then this. And I’m looking forward to putting my skills to work…perhaps I’ll start with a pay raise…
I met Helen for lunch today at the Varsity Pub. She used to work with me in Leamington, but has moved on to greener pastures. We met up to catch up with the gos. I’m impressed with her new direction. She has given up smoking, is dieting, and running again. We tallked about a great many things, but I want go into any of it here. I experienced a bit of sycnronicity while at the Varsity. Last night I was researching courses on creative writing and then today, just as I was leaving the pub, a brochure caught my eye. On a whim, i picked it up and took it back to work with me. Later, I flicked through the brochure only to discover…a creative writing course starting tonight at Warwick University. I called up admissions and got myself registered on the course. So far the course looks promising.
I’m feeling sound right about now…I’m sat in my ugly pea-green lazy boy chair with a cup of Joe and some Tom Petty cranking in the background…Ace.
“I used to live in a 2 room apartment….neighbors knocking on my wall…”
It was hard getting mentally back into work after having such a grand four day weekend. Something about them there four walls closing in on me makes me want to scream….Hey but work is part of the game we play so as my airborne instructor used to say, “Drive on Airborne, Drive On!”
Besides, I can’t complain especially when my friends and fellow soldiers are sucking it down in the desert fucking with a people who don’t want to be fucked with. The sooner we get the hell out of there the better.
Peace
I decided to take a path I have never walked before. The path led me through a big playing field bordered by houses and a cemetery. I always get a sense of my own mortality whenever I come across a cemetery. I see the rows and row of neatly lined grave stones and think how many of those people got what they wanted out of life. Did they get to the end and say damn, I can’t believe it’s all over and I haven’t even done a fraction of the things I wanted to do. I never took that trip I always dreamed of. I never wrote that book or painted that picture or kissed that girl. And now I will never ever get the chance because here I stand on the doorstep of my end with no more time left to do the things I always talked about doing.
I learned on the broken stoned fence and stared at the graves. In front of me was a freshly dug grave. One I image they were going to be putting a coffin in soon. It was dug to the right dimensions. The hole was covered by a piece of plywood. One day that hole will be meant for me. What will I have done with the time I have been given?
There was one particular grave that struck my interest. Nick C was the name written on the black marble headstone. He was born in Dec 1954 and died in 2002. On his grave stone was written, “He who dies with the most toys wins and he certainly won.” Or something to that affect. There was also a smaller stone set about midway down casket. From where I was standing, it looked like it said, “oops.” I was intrigue to know who would right “oops” on their grave. And what could it mean? I decided I need to see this grave up close, so I hopped the fence and walked over to it. As it turns out the stone actually said “coops.” Of course I don’t know what that means either, but from what the family has written on the headstone I can only assume that this person had a happy life.
I made my way home along a route I never been. Even though I knew I was in no danger of being lost, I still had that feeling of wondering where will this road lead. Should I turn back and take a road I know? What if this road leads me somewhere I don’t want to be? Even as these questions raced through my mind, I still couldn’t help but continue to walk forward into the unknown. I eventually connected with a road I knew and walked on home stopping for a brief moment in “Leap Wood.” What a magical name? The sign read, “To the Friends of Leap Wood.” I paused by the little stream running through Leap Wood just to collect my thoughts.
Here is something I wrote a while ago, but I can’t remember if I ever posted it on the old soulcruz weblog. I decided to post it again because of all the reality dating shows kicking around on the television at the moment.
Somebody help me out here. What the fuck has the world come to where men and women have to turn to reality dating television shows to find a date. MR Right is ITV’s latest dose of “aphrodisiac television.” 15 desperate women will compete for the affection of some can’t get a date on his own putz. The Sunday Times described him as a cross between James Bond and MR Darcy. Admittedly, he is a rather good-looking guy, but looks must not be everything if he has to get his women from some overzealous TV producer. He’s got looks and money and proper grooming. He was a British army major. He was equerry to Prince Andrew.
Have guys forgotten how to talk to women. Or have the ladies become so independent and picky that no guy is MR Right for them. Perhaps, we men have become the wimps that the likes of Susan Faldi has declared. We’ve lost our caveman instincts to go out and club the woman we want on the head and drag her back to our cave and make her a baby making sex toy who happens to be able to cook and clean and pour a beer with a good head.
Or maybe the “flirt coach,” Tracy Cox has it right in that we are on some sort of self-actualization trip looking for the perfect relationship with our ideal partner. The truth is this ideal partner doesn’t exist. Never did and never will.
But what about the sad sacks who watch these programs. Talk about not having a life. How do they expect to find a partner sat in front of the Television helping to glean some nugget of hope from the silly cows who willing strut their stuff on national television trying to win the affections of some dope who if he were any sort catch wouldn’t be appearing on the show to get a girl.
What is so hard about modern dating that has men and women flocking to get on these shows or participate in text chat or join singles club and comb the Internet looking for love.
Supposedly young men are facing a crisis of masculinity while young women are confident, solvent, go-getting wonder women.
Petruska Clarkson believes men are in retreat and in serious trouble.
Are men in retreat? Are women all that confident and go-getting?
Everyone seems to be looking for love in all the wrong places. You need only stroll down the magazine isle of your local WHSmiths or Barnes and Noble and scan the front covers of the so called “Lad’s magazines” or the women’s magazines to be struck by the open me headlines that fill the front cover with titles like, “100% Sexcess Rate: How to get her from the street to the sack,” or “Sex: be better than the average guy,” Do these article really hold the secret to finding and getting MR or MRS Right.
Have we forgotten how to communicate with each other without a long checklist of pick up lines or smart things to say to attract the opposite sex? You know, you see a girl that catches your eye, go up to her and start a conversation.
I think what has happened is that we are so busy thinking about the long term outcome of any potential relationship that we never fully connect with the person in the present. Instead taking a keen interest in the person at the precise moment in time, we are constantly thinking about future events while we are talking. Thoughts like, “I wonder if she puts out” or “Man will I get to fondle her breast one day” or “Does he have a high paying job” or “Is he successful in his work” or “He seems to good to be true—he must be gay or married.”
I say simply talk to the girl. Ask lots of questions. Probing questions. Light questions. Heavy questions. In short just ask questions. Engage in the seductive art of conversation. Conversation is like ballroom dancing – sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow. But never dominate the dance.
My computer war is starting to turn in my favor. I am typing this note from deep inside my bunker from a fully functional wireless Internet connection. The fortunes of war began to turn my way after an enemy mole was discovered deep undercover working at PC World in Coventry. Due to misinformation and general lack of care, the mole sold me the wrong gear, then when I brought it back on Sunday, told me I would have to buy another £60 piece of equipment to sort the problem. Luckily the part was not on hand and wasn’t due in until today.
On my way to the front lines I had fully determined to return the bogus piece of kit and take the loss (a false loss I might add, the guy told me I would have to pay a 10% repackaging fee). I went into the PC World trenches fully prepared for a bloody fight, but the soldier on duty turned out to be extremelyt helpful. He happily exchanged my dubious piece of kit for the right specs and all had to do was pay the difference in price between the two units. This turned out to be only £15. Give that soldier a medal!
I am now wireless. Ye ha!
My little computer war continues. For those of you trying to email me, you may have noticed that my emails are bouncing like bad checks. I found out today that the hard drive at my ISP crashed and they have been having trouble restoring the data. They have informed us that the battle continues and they are doing everything in their power to combat the problem. Of course, I’m still stuck without my primary email account. Anyway, if you need to reach me, then do so at claylowe@yahoo.com