Musical accompaniment - Swedish Prog Rockers Freak Kitchen:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?I broke the back of it today after reaching a despair-point last night when I test-packed the car only to find that a depressing amount of stuff wouldn't fit. Today, after being utterly demoralised by The Big Bossman, I sucked it up and repacked, with the aid of Actually Folding Clothes rather than just stuffing them into the bag, spending the last of my stockpile of Vacuum Bags (stuff full, connect nozzle to the valve and suck the air out), and reloading whilst humming the Tetris theme, I got it done. I have a ridiculous pile of clothes to discard, but they're things I'm unlikely to fit again, or sufficiently the wrong side of threadbare.
Other discards consist of cleaning supplies, mostly-empty shampoo bottles, and the like. Things you take because waste-not, but unjustifiable if you're paying by the cubic metre. The bin will eat hearty once the op shop has taken their cut, otherwise hopefully my tenant will make use of what I leave behind.
I sat down in my creaking-Frankenstinian-Monster outdoor chair (which I'm going to miss until I build a new one - I see some Ikea Hacking in my future; by Odin, my power tools will meet me in Valhalla) with a beer to unwind and look at what was going on in the world, but the world proved to be boringly depressing, so I thought "fuck it" and hit the Compose button to open a new email.
This is another "no reply expected" email - I'm writing because it seems like something to do, a pressure-release vent for my head, and a victimless crime (in that I'm yet to hear you complain about receiving guilt-free content). Tonight I'm trying to avoid too many 'death' metaphors - I may have gone overmuch to that well in my last, although far from unintentional and once again I apologise for nothing.
I've been doing this, obligatory social interludes aside, near-on non-stop for nearly a fortnight now, an asymptotic, Sisaphyan task which never quite seems to be done. I know that when I roll off the couch (my bed is going to a friend's place the day before I fly) on Thursday morning, lock the door for the second-last time (because you just know I'll need to dart back in for one final spot-check or to grab something I'm sure I forgot) and knock on Dave's door I'll be leaving unsatisfied, lamenting how lacklustre a job I did. I'll console myself knowing that I did the best I could, and there's nothing I leave here I can't replace, rebuild, or repatriate.
I watched my bike get swallowed by a container truck today.
The car goes tomorrow.
I'll run Beckett out to JetPet's boarding facility on Wednesday, and after Ricky leaves I'll likely sit here surrounded by dust and luggage, and reach once more for the Compose button.
It's like the end of Return of The King as all the characters depart, just without the pedophillic undertones of the grown-arse men grinning whilst the child-like hobbits romp and embrace on an over-large bed). I'll always remember the final MacHall comic strip tho:
The car goes tomorrow.
I'll run Beckett out to JetPet's boarding facility on Wednesday, and after Ricky leaves I'll likely sit here surrounded by dust and luggage, and reach once more for the Compose button.
It's like the end of Return of The King as all the characters depart, just without the pedophillic undertones of the grown-arse men grinning whilst the child-like hobbits romp and embrace on an over-large bed). I'll always remember the final MacHall comic strip tho:
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Credit: Matt Boyd - http://www.machall.com/
My sense of "Semper Inexpletus" (you may recall as the title I gave to my last mix-tape) notwithstanding, I'm pleased with how I Project Managed all of this.
For all that everything has come down to the wire on timing, it's only been possible because I allowed slack and contingency.
For all that I've struggled, I persevered and I achieved.
For all that I'm physically and emotionally demolished, I got it done.
There is still an I.
And he can still stand.
That seems worthy of note.
For all that everything has come down to the wire on timing, it's only been possible because I allowed slack and contingency.
For all that I've struggled, I persevered and I achieved.
For all that I'm physically and emotionally demolished, I got it done.
There is still an I.
And he can still stand.
That seems worthy of note.
A long time ago in a city far, far away (although not so far from where you are right now), I came up with an aspirational "family motto" (which I never really used because it's tres' wanktastic) "Through adversity, ascendence". Rebirth (or Resurrection) is never gentle, let alone kind. You have to die before you can be reborn after all, and for all that we're born in pain and blood, in death that pain and blood are our own. For all the badassery of rolling the stone back from his tomb, putting his hands over his eyes and looking at the crowd saying "Do I LOOK like I'm bullshitting?", Christ died in agony, drenched in blood, broken, betrayed, forsaken, and alone.
Whatever doesn't kill me just leaves me angrier, and with a vindictive sense of humour.
Everything worthwhile comes at a cost.
Buy the ticket, take the ride.
Everything worthwhile comes at a cost.
Buy the ticket, take the ride.
But there are already flowers beginning to bloom on the slopes of Golgotha; soon enough they'll climb the frames left on the hill and turn their faces to the sun, because the process of rebuilding is now underway.
After a 10min phone call to my ISP the internet connection will be spun up and ready at Northbourne by the time I land, ready for me to plug my router in (I haven't decided on a name for my wifi yet - if you have a suggestion I'll consider it).
Just before launching this email, I ordered a mattress which I may be able to sleep on (Sandra checked what's in there and deemed it back-wreckingly soft), timed to arrive just after I do.
My Art Project is still on-track to arrive just beforehand.
And there are a couple of bottles of moderately-ancient wine I've had cellaring sitting in my suitcase which I've every intention of opening on Friday (I may even wait for your arrival if you're that way inclined) and pouring out, sealing my new covenant in blood-analog.
After a 10min phone call to my ISP the internet connection will be spun up and ready at Northbourne by the time I land, ready for me to plug my router in (I haven't decided on a name for my wifi yet - if you have a suggestion I'll consider it).
Just before launching this email, I ordered a mattress which I may be able to sleep on (Sandra checked what's in there and deemed it back-wreckingly soft), timed to arrive just after I do.
My Art Project is still on-track to arrive just beforehand.
And there are a couple of bottles of moderately-ancient wine I've had cellaring sitting in my suitcase which I've every intention of opening on Friday (I may even wait for your arrival if you're that way inclined) and pouring out, sealing my new covenant in blood-analog.
OK, so I failed at avoiding the 'death' metaphors, but I blame you for invoking Easter; I can never resist a good biblical reference, but I'll ameliorate it with a Cyanide & Happiness joke:
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Credit: Rob DenBleyker - https://explosm.net/comics/rob-myblood
That'll do, I think. Time to go see how Thomas Covenant is going to be a whiny little bitch next ("Waah, I'm a leper, outcast, unclean! This is all a dream, and you're making me walk for days and days but oooh hey, a stone knife I can shave with! I feel better now.").
I'm not hating it; I wouldn't take the piss otherwise, but I still want to punch him in the face with a brick.
Regards,
Peter.
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