Where is beginning and where is end? She said this like that which means this... why is that dread always rolling in the pit of my stomach? Is all this worth it or should I walk out of the door now and never come back ..."I'm not much on looks, I'm just the guy with the crooked tie"...does my hair look greasy today, this angle, this angle, this angle? If I stepped forward now would I bounce off the front of the train and land by the side of the track or would I be carried along stuck by G force to the front of the carriage? That girl smiled at me, do I have her objet petit a? The Thing, The Thing, Das Ding?..."the gentleman needs to shave"...
Criticism
Critisism
So I work with a person, unwittingly she has become my new hate object (everyone should have one, a person or thing you enjoy hating). She is one of those insipid plebeians, that sucks the passion and fun out of everyone in the room, she sits there in the corner, with her ever fluctuating moods, complaining when people sing, barking when innocent mistakes are made, basically being generally arrogant, sending me emails of criticisms, that are overblown, poorly expressed and badly edited. Now what is my problem? How can I be so adverse to this ignorant cretin, she's just as loving, sensitive and valid as I am?
She has dared to try and draw me into the game, she is the game, there is nothing beyond it for her, she lacks the capacity to view her own inevitable failure and enjoy it. When she sends me these emails, my first reaction is laughter, then inevitably hate, she sits opposite me and can't say these things to my face. She did do Hotel Management at university which obviously taught her to lack humanity. She wants money, career, the perfect boyfriend, she is my enemy. I am allergic to the game, the work, colleague game; I know the script, the tired hackneyed diatribe.
Constraints
Constarints
The truth is I feel weak and she is a reminder of my impotence, where do I go? What is my response?
To destroy and create anew?
Her tensed jaw and harsh tones are the very fullness of her lack which infects me drawing my being downwards to a quivering point, a taut inflexible band. My words echo too loud, and cause vibrations that resonate around the room with an unpleasant pitch. Her criticisms, her words will only ever stand for the fact that she doesn't possess the things she craves, and her demands to me to provide them are futile. We are all trying to give people things we don't have; she lipsticks her mouth to look like the girl in his dream, he comforts her when she's upset, because he saw it in a film. This is the game: to appear, to seem. I know not 'seems'. Pretending you are able to fill the void in the Other is not big and not clever. Failure, this is what I teach, heroic, perpetual, ecstatic failure; the Uberfailure if you will.
So, yes, I know all the answers, all I have to do is sit her down, look her straight in the eye with all my flammable charisma and explain this to her, at which point she will drop to her knees cry, then thank me for my profound knowledge. Herein lies the second facet of my tragedy: the fact that I have the arrogance to presume to know, while at the same time feeling the pure futility and blindness of my words. Am I not writing this piece to seem like I can fill that aperture in your belly? Why is my view more valid and correct than that of that scrawny spiritually dead imbecile? It's not, but it is, my head and every fibre of my being says so, here is the necessity, here is the tragedy, here is the failure.
I want to fail, it is mandatory, but it must be fought with this in mind.
MG
