(no subject)
Lebanon - Israel. Back to your separate corners please and sit down and behave like good children. If this nonsense continues I'll not be able to visit you and bring you gifts of Pounds Sterling to fund your thirst for big guns and blood stains.
I just realised yesterday that I don't work with books any more. What a rattle to my insides that was. Now I have also realised that I have to learn to be friends with new people. I have to make small talk in the staff room and laugh politely at conversation that is as humourous as genocide. I have to talk about myself. My insides are turning to ice - a swift blow would see my entrails shatter into billions of twinkling splinters that would melt upon contact with the ground. What then? I'd have to be fed through a tube? No, no - that wouldn't work, I'd have no stomach. Crap - this job is going to kill me.
On a more positive note - maybe I can now begin to like books again. And I can now even enjoy some contemporary fiction without those around me snorting with derision so greatly that snot flies out their collective public school boy noses. And I can like Will Self and Michel Houellbecq without ridicule or consternation from the Kant fan and the overtly feminist lesbian boss. And I won't have to critique the aspiring filmmakers screenplay or watch the hour long rough cut of his film on a loop with notebook and pen making notes on gaping holes in his character's motivations and non linear, linear narrative. As I shrieked at him in desperation in my last few days - What the hell do I know - I've never made a film before.
I don't know - new job anxiety is striking me down and I know I don't know how to play nice with normal people. It's a skill I was born lacking.
I just realised yesterday that I don't work with books any more. What a rattle to my insides that was. Now I have also realised that I have to learn to be friends with new people. I have to make small talk in the staff room and laugh politely at conversation that is as humourous as genocide. I have to talk about myself. My insides are turning to ice - a swift blow would see my entrails shatter into billions of twinkling splinters that would melt upon contact with the ground. What then? I'd have to be fed through a tube? No, no - that wouldn't work, I'd have no stomach. Crap - this job is going to kill me.
On a more positive note - maybe I can now begin to like books again. And I can now even enjoy some contemporary fiction without those around me snorting with derision so greatly that snot flies out their collective public school boy noses. And I can like Will Self and Michel Houellbecq without ridicule or consternation from the Kant fan and the overtly feminist lesbian boss. And I won't have to critique the aspiring filmmakers screenplay or watch the hour long rough cut of his film on a loop with notebook and pen making notes on gaping holes in his character's motivations and non linear, linear narrative. As I shrieked at him in desperation in my last few days - What the hell do I know - I've never made a film before.
I don't know - new job anxiety is striking me down and I know I don't know how to play nice with normal people. It's a skill I was born lacking.