Gastronomy

I don't know what this meal is, or where it's going
it isn't what I asked for. I don't know why it's here.
A meal so strange... this is not the nine o'clock news.
I didn't even know I was hungry, and yet,
here is a feast, without familiar foods,
and I'm not sure which fork to pick up next.

What I forgot is we don't have to move
but can enjoy the main as an everlasting sweet,
ever-surprising and unexpected,
never going near dessert.
We will not dare discuss dessert.
And then the main can remain, remain,
timeless, unending, and exactly what we needed to eat.

I wrote this a while ago, forgot I had it in my drafts list. I didn't quite know what to do with it or whether it should ever see the light of day. It comes from a pretty confusing time in my past, something I was reflecting on, long after the events unfolded.

I think the time is right that it gets published now. The main meal goes on. The dessert, never even considered. The line, never even approached, let alone crossed. Friendship is a wonderful thing, and I am so incredibly grateful for it, unexpected though its arrival was.

Sometimes we over-think things. I over-thunk it at the time, terribly, and wondered at my friend's motives, couldn't understand how someone would have so much time for me without expecting "more", and if I'm honest, I was expecting that would happen, and dreading the time that the "more" would come up in conversation, because I'd have to shut it down and hurt someone badly.

It never did come up. And I am so honestly, incredibly grateful, and so thankful to keep calling this person my friend, a friend who knows me inside and out and just knew never to push that agenda. Thank you.

I did something silly

...and I looked at the bestseller list for adult short stories. Apparently nothing is taboo. This might mean that there's a possible home for some of the shelved short stories that I wrote nine years ago (I recently had them pulled from the website where they originally appeared). I was hesitant to release them because, erm, I suppose I feel like "real" authors don't write about creepy relationships or situations. But I've grown a little in the past nine years, and have come to accept that this was merely my own prejudice and there are people who want to read about those subjects.

I am cleaning them up and choosing which ones deserve to be released.

I still can't bring myself to release "naughty" work under my own name. I could pretend it's about protecting my identity in regards to risqué work, but the truth of the matter is, I'm still not convinced that I'm a good enough writer. Despite the reviews I've had to the contrary. In a way, I suppose I'm waiting for an accidental hit under my pen name to give me the confidence to release as myself.

Time will tell. :)

On "Failure" (and Procrastination)

I think I'm the master procrastinator. If you think I'm joking, then my book list should allay any doubts.

I am also the master of not-finishing-anything. But it has occurred to me of late that not every unfinished book is a failure.

Take Work Two (Ana). I spent a great deal of time developing that story, the downtrodden girl destined for greatness. It is immensely clichéd in theory, but the way she was to get to the destination I had hoped was unique. I am certainly yet to hear of another book that describes a character with the same attitudes and values as hers.

And yet, despite the weeks of effort I put into that, it was going nowhere. The storytelling just wasn't engaging with the reader. It was painful, but I eventually shelved it, knowing that until the twist or new character spoke to me, it was pointless continuing with drivel. Shelving hurts - at the time I always assume it will be forever, so even if the shelving turns out to be temporary, it can sometimes make me feel a little sad.

Even so, all was not lost. It was writing Work Four's outline that I realised the idea was familiar, and so Work Two's premise could be used. (I know I've mentioned this before but stay with me.)

The point is... time spent writing is never wasted. Shelving a book is not the end. Accepting a work's limitations is not failure. It is a learning process, and we are growing as writers. It could be said that the secret to good writing is in what gets thrown out.

In my procrastination for today, I stumbled on a blog I'm loving. Oh, I hate what the blogger has to say and I hate her genre. What can I say, I'm opinionated. But it stirred me into writing today, and into updating this blog. Twice. You only see one new post, but that's because I posted something else and queued it for later.

Even annoyance can be a tool. Including being annoyed at your own work. See?

(Ever the procrastinator, I don't think I'll post this... just yet.)

The Sentinel

The sentinel stood as he always had, tall and watchful and white. But somehow now the gloss had fallen, his once-proud wings no longer glinting in the sun. The furrowed brow and sorrowed eyes cast over his battlefield, ever-vigilant, but pride now waning.

He had been the lauded one, the saviour boy, the golden angel breathing life. The rapture, the joy! - oh how he remembered! And then bitterly, from atop his pedestal, had he endured the turning of the crows. The taunts, the vile words, where once he had heard only lovesongs.

But still, and more, he endures stock-still, ever-rendering services required, fulfilling canon, exceeding grades. And thankless yet his back stands tall, while his worshippers flock to his adversaries, declaring him wanting and unwanted.

image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Career Woman

Have you ever met a Career Woman?

I don't mean the kind you think I mean. I mean the ones who float in smug satisfaction. They need not justify themselves to anyone. They have already reached the pinnacle of success.

Every day is an exercise of efficiency: the hair is styled just-so. The make-up prepared perfectly. The clothes are never the height of juvenile-dominated fashion; more like the windows of the Ladies' clothing stores. Ladies with a capital L. A respectable spring scarf about the neck. A handbag which matches the low heels. Comfortable, but with a carefully-created outlook of style, serenity and self-assurance.

Every morning has its tasks. One must ensure the youngest Junior Executives have everything they need, and are taken to their respective appointments. Junior Number One is no longer in the same Office, and is forging his own life. The second Junior is twelve now. He plays the clarinet. He must look neat and tidy; it would not do for any of the others to make note of a dishevelled appearance. The Career Woman takes note of his school shoes, which are wearing on the sides. She types it into her phone, so that she will remember; she tells Junior that they will be going shoe-shopping that weekend. He grumbles as expected; she swiftly silences him with a look, or perhaps even a slap to the ear. Junior Executives must know their place in the Company. And they must achieve results which keep The Boss impressed.

After this, she takes care of The Office. The Office must be pristine. Beds made, kitchens tidied, bathrooms spotlessly scrubbed. Career Woman sits in the Meeting Room, and talks on her phone while all this is going on. There are networks to maintain, images to portray, important connections to be made while some unfortunate soul is on hands and knees attending to bathroom tiles. Once the office work is complete, there is the Maintenance work to do. An hour on the treadmill, sometimes with inspirational music. She must ensure the Product is maintained. It is of the utmost importance to her Business Model.

There are always business lunches with other Career Women. Sometimes Career Woman holds them at her office. Sometimes in a cafe. They discuss important aspects of their Careers, since they are all in the same industry. Money is never discussed, and wealth is never flashed about. That, my colleagues, would be inappropriate.

Most afternoons, she does her research in the Meeting Room. The remote control allows her to select which channel will be most informative. One must know what's going on in the world, you see, even if it's the imaginary world which gets researched the most. On some days, trade magazines have more valuable information. Without knowing which celebrity is dating which, business lunches might become awkward.

A quick trip to the supermarket allows her to prepare for the second-last task of her work day. The meal must be good, and it must look excellent, and it must be on time. The Boss relies on Career Woman to meet his expectations.

The Junior Executive has been trained to stay away from The Boss, unless summoned. When summoned, he shall present a recent stellar report card, or perhaps some project for which he was given an award. He shall then retire to his quarters and remain concealed until the next working day.

The Boss confers with business associates in the Meeting Room while Career Woman obliterates all evidence of a meal having occurred. She does this quickly, quietly and efficiently. It is her job, after all, and The Boss must not be disturbed. At some point she intrudes on his solitude with two glasses of a nice wine. Thus begins the last task of her day.

Tonight, she has dressed in Evening Attire and steep heels. Career Woman is thirty-nine, and she knows it is getting rather late to re-cement her place in The Company. Seduction is part of her job, but tonight, like the last few weeks, she has neglected to consume a certain medication. Her timing has been calculated perfectly. Even a Career Woman keeps certain secrets from her Boss. Hopefully, this task will succeed.

In a loyal, hard-working personal assistant, every Boss will forgive occasional surprises, and this Boss has room in his office for another Junior Executive. Another Junior Executive will keep her in a job for a further twenty years.

The Parachutist

I work with a woman who looks like a parachutist.

Every morning at eight when I arrive at work, she is already sitting at her desk. That cubicle faces the kitchen door, and I can see her legs beneath the desk. Today she has the purple shoes on. I like those ones the best, but in the way that a child might say they like Brussels sprouts better than Cabbage when they hate all vegetables with a passion.

She waves at me and smiles a greeting, her attention fixed on the caller at the other end of the phone. "Mmm-hmm," she murmurs into the mouthpiece, the quiet reassurance that she hadn't hung up and that the speaker should continue their spiel. The Parachutist's fair short hair is a cloud around her sunny face, her huge round glasses like 1970's windows to the sky.

The Parachutist always says good morning. Or waves it, when a customer interrupts her opportunity. But the Parachutist rarely speaks to us otherwise. If we need help, the Parachutist will know, but she will answer politely in as few words as possible, and will watch our faces carefully to ensure we understand. Once her job is done, she will jump out of the conversation, returning to her base camp to murmur into phone receivers and pore over waiting work.

Under the desk today, and topping her purple shoes, are the pants she always wears. They are jeans, of a fashion, but of a shape I hadn't known jeans were made in. The Parachutist has taught me that these jeans exist. They are high-waisted, and blown up like a balloon from top to bottom. Her ankles look impossibly tiny where they disappear into the purple shoes, the jeans' bottom elastic pulling them tight.

I keep imagining what her hair would look like as she jumped. The jeans, I am sure, would look exactly the same, billowing out and blown up with air as she rustled in the high wind descent. I sometimes wonder how old the Parachutist is. Her face might be 20, but her hair is 50 and her clothes a mix of 12 and 40. She has the efficiency of a secretary who has known a CEO for thirty years. Perhaps she is ageless, kept young by leaping out of planes every weekend.

Or perhaps she never jumps. Maybe she moonlights as that secretary, for a skydiving club, and the nearest she ever gets is greeting customers and handing them the enrolment forms.