Gaseous

My heart feels like it is running out of fuel. It sputters vehemently. Perhaps in a vigorous attempt to postpone the inevitable. It seems that the hearts in my family have a tendency to stop prematurely. This may, in part, explain my escapist nature.

I'm trying to figure out what it is that I precisely want, or rather, need to make me a better person. The list of requirements is awfully short at this moment in time. And, I'm afraid that it will show me up as the ice cube I am. To face one's nature in its complete nakedness, stripped bare of all the trimmings, is not half as bad as the thought of having oneself exposed in front of the scrutinous gaze of strangers. But being an ice cube: should I really care?

At any rate, I'm a little out of sorts. Yes, well. I have just eaten a salad (goat's cheese, spinach, apples, walnuts, honey, sundried tomatoes) and it has made me a tad more than queasy. So. I'm inclined to attribute my nausea, and general feeling of unease, to my grub and my sputtering heart - whose silencing is imminent, I'm sensing...

I've just returned home from work, and today I had a talk with my supervisor. Not one of those "talk" talks, just a regular talk with little, or no, consequences. She was highly curious about how I have experienced working the graveyard shift with my colleague B. - of whose character I had been informed by many colleagues before I had even set eyes on him. Their synopses did not endear him to me immediately, but rather made me extremely wary. Yes, B. I had been told is a very vitriolic man. I was intrigued. It is perhaps needless to say that B. and I did not hit it off. We had a huge blow-up which resulted in my telling him off, and in my thinking him completely embittered by his failure in life, alcoholism, and divorce. Oh. B. did not mind telling his lifestory to me - not even when I showed him through my body language and my not asking after his motives when he disclosed facts of his private life that were "private" - and to me at least - should have remained so for the time being, if not for ever, that I was not in the slightest degree interested. One cannot deny him persistence, at any rate.
At a certain point I had enough. The blow-up ensued. The make-up did not. Well. We managed to patch things up - but it was quite shoddily done, since neither of us had the mental strength to deal with the issue right there and then.

So. Today my supervisor wanted to know "what went down". I told her. I also told her that I'd rather not work with B. Sadly, she could not make me any promises. Soit. I'm used to getting my wishes thwarted by the-powers-that-be; why should it be any other way when the powers are closer to home, and less omnipotent?

I screwed up a lot today at work. I wasn't really focussed. So, in an attempt to divert attention from my failing to meet the standards I showed my colleagues pictures of Britney S.'s vagina - which is making quite a name for itself on the Internet; I think someone's vagina is going to realize that her owner is cramping her style, and decide to get herself an agent and a solo career. Mark my words. We haven't seen the last of Britney's vagina.

We should not waste faith on countless gods
That breathlessly hold their cameras
Directed at our reposing souls.

Nor should we dull the air with prayers
That hang like a mist over our sins
(like the kindness of drunken strangers
that taps us gently on our chins
When we offer them another drink)

Prayers tend to cloud our goodwill:
A supernatural cosmetics
They are in fact sticky tarmac roads
That lead to the same old Rome.

We should learn to grow
Asphodels instead
(To entice the bees
In the black of our eyes)
In the gardens at
The edge of Infinity

Liquid

In the grand scheme of things why should it matter if I choose to watch amateur porn as a pastime? Why should anyone go out of their way to reprove me for watching innocent little clips of people emulating the fabulous lives of porn stars? Would not one deliver a great injustice to these aspiring porn stars by denying them an audience? I do not have the heart to snub their (American) dreams of limited fame, forestalled fortune, and earthy happiness. Besides, their stellar performances have inspired me to adopt a signature moan.

I am obliged to ride the train more often than my delicate sensibilities can handle. It is almost a rule of thumb that some, or other, stranger with lambent eyes, or pendulous breasts, or a menacing moustache, or drenched in some designer disinfectant seeks conversation with me; either by staring at me until I feel extremely uncomfortable and am forced into conversation, or by simply starting talking to me as though we are old acquaintances.

I wonder whether I'm unconciously sending out signals that say: "I'm starved for conversation. Do not mind this book that I'm reading. It is just a silly ploy to keep my attention from wandering to the fact that I had rather talk right now than read. I will commend you for seeing through this shoddy ploy."

At any rate, a few days back I was sitting in the train minding my own business, which was reading 'Cakes and Ale', when a Chinese couple entered the train. They were heavily in conversation and hurriedly looking for some empty seats. Like the gentleman I am, I non-verbally let know that there were a couple of seats empty where I was seated by removing my bag, and my feet, off the empty seats. They repaid my magnanimity with a broad smile, and several flitting glances, and nestled themselves swiftly in the available spaces lest someone should beat them to the empty seats. All the while they were feverishly talking Chinese.
I smiled. I had taken, when I was in college, some Chinese language lessons. I tried to figure out what they were saying; alas to no avail. They were speaking - to my knowledge - Mandarin, and I had only learned Cantonese. Nevertheless I was distracted by their animation if not by what they were saying. After a while though I dug back into my book. From the corner of my eye, however, I could espy the Chinese couple eyeing me as though I was some curious artefact. I looked up. They smiled broadly. I smiled back, and nodded. The man blushed. The girl giggled. I was perturbed - if only moderately. They gave me these knowing looks, as though I had been made part of their secret world. The communication between us was entirely sub rosa.

I was intrigued. I feigned understanding what they were talking about; I closely followed their non-verbal communication, and reacted accordingly. I could see that now they started to feel a bit uncomfortable. Aha! This little play went on until I had to get off. When I stood up to exit the train they both looked up at me, and smiled intently and let their eyes linger on me as I walked down the aisle to the door.

Delighted to be
In your arms again
I grew a simple wish
At the edge
Of my eyelash:

Let all the deeds
of trust make arches.

Frozen

I suppose I should write an introduction, or other. I suppose I should delineate my intentions, or rather, what my wishes are, with a certain care. Should not it be funny if that were my shortcoming?

Of the social rituals I find the mediated introduction the most deleterious. It is wicked in that the act of your being presented to another person is always accompanied by a brief synopsis of your person; written, and unedited, by the person who is mediating the act.

"May I introduce you to Frozen Tapwater? He's the most glistening ice cube in the sea of cola; and, I have heard that he does not melt in your hand, but rather in your mouth. So, you can shake his hand without any apprehension. He's a good friend of mine, yes. We have known each other for - what is it? - six years now."

Smiles appear, whether genuine or fake, followed by a string of perfunctory courteous questions. The 'conversation' gets flailed anxiously by the newly acquainted lest an awkward silence falls and they get rushed to the real world in which they care nothing for each other's existence.

"So..."

"Straw tells me you're in accounting?"

"Yes, uh, but I sort of hate my job, and I'd rather not talk about it... if you know what I mean."

"Oh. Fortunately I don't know..."

[Pause]

"Yes, isn't that Bubbles over there?"

"Who?"

"I'm going to say Hello to Bubbles."

"OK."

And quite against common sense we persist in subjecting each other to this social minuet. I once, in a fit of absence of mind, introduced two friends of mine who instantly took a dislike to each other but remained perfectly courteous the entire time. It was the most horrific thing I had ever seen.

One of them on the next occasion he saw me said: "What a character such-and-such was. He worked the room like an inspirational speaker, whose motto - which was without a doubt prompted by some insidious side-effect of a stimulant drug - read "Let's keep the discussion lively - at any cost."

The other was equally witty: "Such-and-such looks really great. Does he use the souls of young virgins as a moisturizer?"

That was the last time I introduced people to each other.

I love not Boys,
Or silly Men.
I love rhetorically
For lack of toys

But every now and then
I kiss them metaphysically
Just to feel
The Universe shake with the fever

Of being born again.