I am a bag of cats (On the road to St. Ives)

this has been coming a long time. i say with some resonance in my voice, like a famed author of old or some long retired virtuoso. i own no such title. and yet...this feels significant. i have browsed the old pages of my life and have sensed development. maybes it time i say to myself. just try it, let it flow. the blank page laughs at me but now im ready to laugh back, louder and more abrasive, voice huskier through that i shouldnt smoke it but i will anyway cigarette and i feel, perversely more masculine for it. i am lovin the archetypes. dancing the stereotype, twisting at weddings.

i have engaged the world a little since last we spoke, you and i, i and i. it seems my talents are more exploitable in the wider world than once thought, and yet... there is no real joy in any of it. this half recieved pat on the back, a good job, good boy, have some pride in your performance. its for naught really, i know. and what a statement that is, i know. as if it shows on my face, in my eyes maybe. some pain experienced that is etched in me, noticeable to the learned few, or those that share it. christ.

i deal in people now, daily. And that i have nothin to sell them makes me vibrate on a mollecular level, it is bliss. i have, of course, stats and meetings and feedback and blah bleh bluggghh. but i get conversations, peoples lives. they open and i am there. wow. sounds luscious no? it can be. making something easy for somebody when they need nothing more than just that, it can be. there is death, there is bankruptcy there are all sorts of little miniature disasters to tend to. college fees, medical bills, sickness and birth. i get all of it. cozily behind my premise of the professional, the radio vocied, the sincere.

but i am sincere, i know. and it is wonderful to know that i can care so much about something, someone, so far away, in the shit. and i take it home, and it walks around with me, and it holds my hand everywhere i go like all that inner child hokum. and my own inner child laughs at my steadfast skepticism as i shout at him for not gettin an A on his last test. and he asks why dont i believe in this and that and everything. the problem lies where the phone goes dead, when the lights are off, when it aint business as usual.

a creeping realization looms in me as it so often has and i attempt to throw away all the crap that has congealed in this battered thorax. built up from the negligent, the uncaring, the real glass eyed motherfuckers. this and human resources. the term even. i excrete unpleasant fluids at its mention. human...resources....human...resources, things at our disposal that are human in nature, things at our disposal...humans.

they own me. they own you. they own us. we are human, we are resources and they give us benefits and discuss pension plans and holidays and training schedules and tell us we did a good job and offer us a promotion and talk about company cars and business trips and personal assistants. they give us hope for soemthing we dont want dont need and make us want and need. becuase there is no other way we can remain resources. if they dont have the utilization of our body/mind dichotomy. my soul wrapped in tin foil and strapped into a back support chair.

free coffee and free sugar and free this and free that and they mention it so many times you believe it exists, this freedom. but it applies only to things as we are things. things than can posess or can be posessed. and they coax, and the volunteer and they do it in such a way that at first it seems complimentary, a wonderful remarkable fantastic opportunity. it is life sucking, it is productivity it is work force management and time management and time sheets and time and time and time again. and we sit. in our little training rooms to break the monotony, and we do not listen as they spout familiar phrases.

familiar like family like you like me like us. as it is soma. we drink it and sleep as they give us more to do and less to take. i take time, in idle moments, when not in action mode, caring man mode, to care about number one. and then they have me. that is what they want. screw this team build, this community construction. they need little self serving automatons. think about me me me, and how does this benefit the me me me. but not too much, that would give it away. just enough the say it, just enough that you would tell on a friend, or jump over a long serving colleague for a shot at whatever big time they offer in the big top.

it is disgusting and i wail at it, but am them. i am too late. that i must break free of this fever dream melancholy and embrace all that is theirs, all that i loathe and wrile in it. suckle on the dirty breast like a glutton. it is praise and i am praiseworthy. but this way... i cannot. i cannot but contadict myself as this flows, i am fighting. i am flighting and want to, away away.

we are all in gingerbread houses, that is the world we inhabit. all of us fattened for the eating, not so much the prodigal son seed, but the goat in all its lechery. fattened as an offering to whatever demonic manifestation they conjure with their spreadsheet witchery. i hate them and cannot say it. they make my skin crawl and i cannot say it. i need to blaspheme in front of groups of innocents to show them they are alive, and powerful. that the words they use are magic sex and that nobody can stop what they do not understand.

i do not understand, but i know. i know. and it boils in me sometimes like this big spinning ball is one exposion of cruel beauty and all of us are the fuel. we are human resources. i do not care what happens when i die, only that i do, so that all of this can cease. fear not, i harbour no immediate plans nor do i intend to have an active part in my personal dissappearance. it will be thousands of years before i go anywhere. this is, i feel, my first try. but it is all there, for the knowing, for the stealing and secreting away, for the founding of obscure societies with blood pacts and cloaks. it is all here. there.

things have to and will happen, and i am transported from place to place. this palce is as good as any. i have my head. my swirling cosmos dreams. the notions of myself and others. and i laugh deep, like breathing. it comes from the bones, from the marrow, from the busy little cellular structure, from the ground. we are so silly, with our cars and our clothes and our bodies and our concepts of morality. we are giddy children playing angry grown ups in one global game of house. and we like to keep it neat. and we like it just so, and we have to put out the good plates becuase the neighbours may drop in. all victims of victims of victims.

my hands are knotted as the tree and i too am five hundred years old. some sacred oak on sacred hill on sacred land in sacred town. sacre sacre sacre. three times for luck. i am crazy. i know. i know. i know.