J'en ai marre de les entendre r�ler.
Qui?
Les filles du bureau, chacune tellement enfonc�e dans ses mis�res qu'elles ne m'entendent m�me pas leur souhaiter bonjour.
The first perfectly sunny day in weeks, and everyone is spending it whingeing, every word out of every mouth here is "don't you think I'm right when I say [insert whatever negative thing they have to say]" except les gars de HP and frankly, kudos to Hewlett Packard for unerringly showing a professionalism that is nigh-epic in comparison to the childish mess everyone's in.
I should know better than to mess with start-ups... But hey. THis time I'm a consultant. I don't sink with the box, and I've learned a few very interesting things in the process.
*shrug*
Strange to be letting them get to me. Bastards.
Only, at the same time I have to be careful not to overstep my whingeing too.
I'm happy to listen. I'm honoured that my perspective is asked for. I'm happy to step back and look up and keep my harsher thoughts in my head sometimes and just say the cleanest, quietest, softest word.
I am happy to be focusing on this skill, after a year, nearly two, in the empty limelight.
No, this does not apply to anyone that I have taken the time to e-mail today.
But yes, it does apply to a couple of MSN'ers here and there, a couple of others too happy to pay the long distance fees to tell me how it's going.
Sometimes though, please ask too.
I know you don't always care, I know your head is filled with things.
Stick it to a post-it by your telephone.
Just make the effort to ask, it makes listening so much easier.
No, I'm not complaining. Not really. I offer things because I want to offer them, but on days when I haven't offered, don't try so hard to take them, alright?
And please, when I make the mistake of divulging that I've had sexual encounters with women, please, don't you dare judge me after you've spent six weeks telling me how nonjudgemental you are.
And don't you dare hate me for making different choices than you, and don't you dare hate me because one of those choices reminds you of a boyfriend that dumped you when you weren't ready.
And don't look at me like that when I try to make the joke that "hell, at least you're not waiting in line at the hospital". Because I'm actually even less amused than you are to make so desperate an attempt at a blatant remark on perspective.
Rant over.
Last night I woke up earlier than usual, towards one rather than three in the morning, the little boy upstairs added a couple of hours to his aria.
My heart was pounding so hard I was ready to vomit the negligible contents of my stomach.
I wrote a poem.
For me.
Scattering papers and books on the floor, my hands shaking for a notebook like they've never shaken for nicotine, I wrote a poem. For the first time in too long to remember it wasn't about love or lust or stunning imagery, it was for me, about me, utterly, and so honestly, purely selfish.
It was only five short lines, few words in each, but it is as close to Keats' purity of emotion as I've come in a long time.
I used the word anguish. I wish I could explain why, in between the golden curls and light-heartedness and laughter and soaking in the sunshine during lunchtime strolls through harlem, I can't explain why anguish is the basis for all the laughter.
Maybe it's quite simple. Maybe it's the oldest story of all, maybe it's perspective.
I'm afraid of losing David after all this time, all these words, all our tears and hopes and telephone calls.
I'm also afraid that I might be the first to let go, too quick to be realistic in the face of difficult choices.
Not that it matters right now, the choices aren't imminent.
Right now...
... I have a meeting with les gars de HP and we're going to do some honest work.
Aristotle and his checklist. Tell him I'm halfway done.