Say What You Mean, Mean What You Say

October 14, 2008

Morning all

 

Sadly, you’ve already missed a bit today – I was all too ready to write a blog called ‘What The Fuck?’ in which I detailed my total confusion over a situation, but I’m not going to do that now. Not everything can go in this thing, after all.

 

I spent yesterday, as I do almost every day, not working, and being generally unproductive.

 

I don’t feel good about this. It reflects badly upon me, my character and my attitude. But it’s really not my fault.

 

Where I work, a number of roles are particularly technical, and being that what I do is largely administrative, and I am totally untrained in any other aspect of the business, I am totally unable to help anyone. So, while people around me are scuttling about and generally swamped with work, I’m playing on Facebook or writing a blog, and there’s very little I can do about it. Obviously I am capable of doing a whole lot more, but with the agency of government I am working for closing in April, no-one is going to jump through any hoops to try and train me.

 

Being that I have very little to do, and Neil would kill me if these blogs aren’t up by 11am, I spend quite a lot of time organising other things, and having a good old think, normally disguised as me ‘writing’ (I write for a living) and closing myself in an office – sometimes mine, sometimes one with a TV and a vending machine so I can down cups of tea.

 

On the Hoffman Process, certainly during the last couple of days, there are prison-like conversations about what you’re going to do ‘on the outside’ – how your life is going to be in a month, a year – and what your ‘vision’ is; of yourself and what you hope your future life will become.

 

I had grand ideas. (Of course, I still do) I was going to live by the sea, (despite actually not really liking being IN the sea) I wasn’t going to own a television, my house was all going to be on one floor, with giant windows that act like disappearing walls, sliding to the side and letting in the sea air. My life would be filled by silence and the sound of the wind; I would read old books I bought in second hand books stores about great patriots and intellects, and I would cycle. Everywhere. There were other things I thought about – being married (hooray, a stable relationship!) or having children (hooray, righting the wrongs of MY father!) but as much as they make up part of the vision, they’re variables, and much harder to conceptualise. I wouldn’t want to envisage an ideal wife or child, for I would be worried that every time I should meet a perfectly lovely woman, she wouldn’t match this fantasy I had constructed.

 

I left Florence House resolving to do a whole lot of very stupid shit in my first month. I was going to shout something, very loudly, once a day. It could be joyous, (I did, more than once, scream in my car at the top of my voice in true ‘Braveheart’ style ‘FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEDOM!’) stupid, or anything that gave me release. I was going to meditate, something I did in fact do, and I was going to buy myself some children’s toys I had always wanted – one, ‘Mr Freeze’, which sadly is no longer made, and two, ‘Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots’, which that wonderful man Graeme bought me.

 

In many respects, I grew up without a father. My real father, who was essentially no more than a sperm donor, didn’t teach me a thing, except, in hindsight, how not to be a father. My step-father, for all his wonderful qualities, and no matter how much I love him now, wasn’t there for me the way a father should be in those formative years. I don’t blame him, it’s not his fault, and I’m not angry. Our relationship could conservatively be described as ‘fraught’.

 

And so yesterday, I was thinking about that, and it dawned on me that despite being relatively intelligent, (despite my persistently appalling grammar) there are a great many things I can’t do, having missed out on those father-son moments – things like changing a tyre, or re-wiring a plug, putting up a shelf, how often you should check the oil in your car… those sorts of things.

 

And then I made another resolution. I’m going to learn. And maybe write a book about it, or, depending on if my creaky old super-8 works, load the videos to You Tube, and then post them here. That might be fun.

 

After work, I did a little shopping, and met with Patricia, a friend from my course, for a little light conversation and tea. I got dragged (willingly, I should add) to some all-natural market/café, where I downed a banana and berry smoothie, which was actually almost tolerable, a tea, and a home-made lemon cake pastry thing. Patricia, meanwhile, ate a protein bar which looked like a square slab of plasticine with nuts in it. We ate, we talked, we got pissed off waiting for them to bring us some water so we just took some out of the fridge.

 

I got home to find my room covered in plastic sheeting – its being decorated – and to be honest I wasn’t in a good mood. I have to draw this blog entry to a close now, but essentially, I ended up eating dinner with my friend Natalie at 10pm, and getting home around 1am. So yeah, I’m pretty tired.

 

So until tomorrow, when I am hopefully in a far superior mood to the tired, slightly annoyed stupor you find me in this morn,

 

My love to you all

Closed Box.

 

PS – If you’ve still got time to do some more reading, I nigh-on INSIST you read this: Charlie Brooker’s latest blog entry in ‘The Guardian’ – if I could write this well… well… my blog would be a lot more interesting.

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5 Responses to “Say What You Mean, Mean What You Say”

  1. Neil Manchester Says:

    Isn’t it strange David- I live by the sea (well, a good 20 metres away), I have no TV, I live on one floor (its a bungalow rather than an infirmity issue), I have big picture windows/ French doors that lead out to a patio/ garden/ private beach, there are no neighbours or artificial lights outside, just the sound of wind and waves (oh, and rutting stags- so I have to lie there on my own, listening to someone else not just having sex, but shouting about it too!) and apart from that total silence. And I have just bought a mountain bike so I cycle too.

    And I think you’ll find that Braveheart was historically incorrect, poorly acted, and is probably the single biggest driver in our inevitable road to independance. Thank you.

    Neil

  2. David Levy Says:

    ‘Our’?

    I must go back and look for the Neil Manchester character in that film…

    It may have been historically inaccurate, but it hasn’t stopped the William Wallace memorial looking like Mel Gibson! I’ve seen it!

  3. Neil Manchester Says:

    Honorary Scot- I’ve lived here nearly 25 years….

    And my character in the film was the chap stood at the back tutting that actually Wallace never did that, especially not with the Queen of England.

    And oh dear me, you were clearly sucked into the hype also. I bet you went to see the Wallace monument after seeing the film?

  4. David Levy Says:

    Nope! I was working up there, and someone told me it was 5 mins away… seemed rude not to go…

  5. UrbanVox Says:

    It might have been historically inaccurate but as sure as hell kicked ass! 🙂


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