Stuff I wrote at work

Nothing
my brain screams
stretching the word out to breaking
but quietly
and to itself
instead of shooting off its mouth
and disturbing others who might be less than understanding
at my inability to function without something to distract me
and why is it that when I have to the time to do something right
I will nearly always do it wrong?

***
raindrops keep falling on my head
and running through my brain
but only that one line
over and over again
and maybe i should sing the song that has no end
attack being the best way to defend
but that would just result in my attacking myself with something worse than I already am
farout, this is doing my head in

***
um ... a single rhyme to while the time
that is passing so slowly
but so
I find I'm lacking a rhyme
to torture and tease into some kind of line
leaving me in a bit of a bind
and bereft
loose
dangling in the wind
like unconfined genitalia
and the afternoon continues slowly

Sunday

Only five minutes left of paid internet and I've read hardly anything and how am I going to write anything in that time? gah!

Moooooaannnnnnnnnnn

Aye currumba - these new people - darn them - they leave no signs.  No checklists with insultingly large ticks.  No leaving the grill door open so you know they've been.  Nothing.  Nada.  I have to wait (and anticipate) a letter containing disheartening comments.  Probably they will say something about my old fridge which is currently residing in my carport until such time as I can find someone to take it away.  Maybe they will insist it be gone in two weeks and come back and inspect.  Who knows?  I could care less.  I am sick.  I care for nothing.  Lord please kill me now, so that I do not have to suffer this cold further.

There are no obvious coughs or running red nose to garner sympathy with.  I just feel really really bad.  I live on in vain hope that Glenn Richards will magically release his solo album over the weekend and I can at least die happy.  (I have fingers crossed it will be out by the end of the year).

I am an embarrassement of a fangirl *sigh*  I acknowledge my failings.  When working the election hotline I mentioned him and Augie March whenever Shepparton cropped up or some other town mentioned in one of his songs.  Even Melbourne airport was a trigger, cause the only reason I knew how to spell it was because of The night is a blackbird.

Having spent the last month answering questions about early voting, whether or not somebody is on the electoral roll and attempting to reassure panicing little old ladies about fines, I am afraid I am a little over the election. 

I am still considering watching the coverage this evening, which will make this only the second election I have ever done that for.

Leadup to latest Rental Inspection

Why do my cats always vomit when I clean house?  I woke to the sweet sounds of retching.  I gave gentle encouragement to Mary-cat to stay in the one spot and to please, please, vomit on the floor and not on an object. The time one of my cats vomited atop my flatmates black mesh entertainment stand and it dribbled through into the television and dvd player is still vivid in my memory.  They are not used to vomiting these inside cats.  They fight against it.  No history of habitual grass chewing and purging behind them.  She tries to swallow it down as it comes up and chews on the remnants like a ruminant.

Morning

I could but flee in horror.

I puttered over to Palmer Street to sit in the sun and breakfast but some middle-aged/old man with a microphone and an electric piano was singing some kind of easy listening/country music song.  Swear to god it was market music (you know ... there is always some older man with a punch and a PA singing "if I said you had a beautiful body would you hold it against me" or "sometimes you have to fight when your a man").  Insupportable at such an early hour.

So I went to my usual place where the food is not so great and the view is of a building sight.

I feel better now.

Sooooooo fuuunnnnnnnnnyyyyyyyy

This woman is just awesome

Monday Night

Michael-cat mewed to come in.  Late night snack time. When finished he hopped on to the ottoman near my chair.  I petted him.  He hissed and swatted my hand.  Blossom-cat approached.  Michael-cat hissed at him as well.  He stared and stared and stared at the door, looking desperate and nervy.  I got up to let him out and he promptly nicked my chair, sprawled out aggressively limp and went to sleep.

I'd been faked out by a fat old cat with dermatitis.
Sheesh.

Sunday Afternoon

The burst of domesticity passed quickly, leaving only a clean kitchen floor as evidence.  The lounge room lurked in diffused light.  Muted, soothing colours distracting the eye from the dust-laiden depths of packed and cluttered bookcases.  The gentle, lulling swish-swish-swish of the ceiling fan stirred the drifts of cat fur in the corners.  Dirt along the sideboards added definition to the divide between floor and wall. Books and papers were strewn carelessly next to table and chair.  Precarious piles of stuff teetered top bookcases from past half-hearted efforts at tidying.

Asleep in an old cane lounge chair with ancient floral pattern, feet resting on a white plastic basket filled with yet more random stuff, reposed a pudgy middle-aged woman; an open book and tabby cat on her lap.  

The afternoon had dawdled.  With only various types of football and other uninteresting offerings on television she had defaulted to reading, even though she had not really been in the mood for it.  Should-haves and ought-tos and vague amorphous worries cycled pointlessly through her brain, making it impossible to concentrate and sapping her will to continue in a physical activity she deemed pointless.  It will all just get dirty again.

She twitched as she dreamed.  An acolyte of some esoteric order.  She had been tasked with filing documents scattered across the floor of a room.  As she achieved some semblance of order more papers would blow in and she would bend to work again.  In true dreamlike fashion there were no doors or windows for these documents to come in from and filing cabinet drawers seemed endlessly long.

The dream had a surprisingly soothing quality to it, unlike if it were real life.  Pressure-less occupation.  No rush. Just infinite filing.  An endless bloodless battle between order and chaos, in perfect balance.

Unlike my house, she thought when she woke, which is heavily weighted in favour with chaos.

The cat purred when she stretched.  Aggressively limp and immovable.  She pet him before pushing him off.

... and so

... and so, since I have a working fridge I have stocked it with food and cooked and therefore eaten excessively and uncomfortably of spagboll - it so hard to know when to stop *sigh*

oh woe
the excesses of the night
roosting in the day
rather uncomfortably in my belly

I said 'marvelous' when chatting to a woman between calls yesterday (the one who started laughing when I said I had cats).  She appeared to find this weird and laughed at me a bit.  Who knew saying marvelous was non-herd behaviour?  Why didn't someone tell me?  Just as well I know not to say 'rather' out loud.  Perhaps that would have earned a 'point at and laugh'?  It certainly didn't go down well in Grade four that time at school.

One gets gentle reminders if one starts back to early from the fifteen minute tea breaks and more gentle reminders if one is a minute or two late.  Said I'd been cracking at 14:30 and was advised to try and hack it out till 14:45.  I am counting down the remaining weeks and reminding myself that money is a useful thing and something we all need to be receiving on a regular basis in this modern world and that I have cats to feed.

We are not allowed to have books or magazines on the desks and have nothing to do between telephone calls.  I am going a little batty at the desk.

Yo

They are tearing our mall up and turning it back into a street.  Bits of concrete and dust everywhere.  Fences with shadecloth and that weird orange mesh to mark holes in the ground.  It's great.  I think I almost like it better than the trees.  The fences change each weekend I am here. 

Somewhat pissed I made a mess on a small square of canvas last night with some paint and in the morning light I wonder what I can do to it to make it look nice.  Perhaps you have never heard of Mr Squiggle?  It was a childrens show where kids would post in some scribble and Mr Squiggle would turn it into a picture of something with his pencil nose whilst it was upside down on a talking grumpy blackboard. 

I lack Mr Squiggles skills.  It may never look nice. 

Sadly, I am no artist.  I know bugger all about painting.  I am not much interested in learning.  Strangely though, every now and then, I get the urge to smack paint on a surface.  Perhaps it is just some kind of thwarted vocational urge showing itself and I was really meant to be a house painter?

Off in search of food.
Hungry now.
Bye.

P.S.  second hand fridge gets delivered Monday -woot!