The description for a Facebook event that I aborted because I suddenly felt ashamed about my unemployment.
Mater University has pushed me out the door and I’m in no hurry to go live with Mother. Life is an adventure, but until then I’ve got to find a job. This job is not good enough. This job is too good. This job said no this job said no this job said no this job said no this job didn’t say anything. This job needs another job. This job does not speak to my intimate passions and interests this job needs a driving license. This job demands skills I don’t have. This job demands skills I don’t even know I have yet. Job job job job.
It’s a race against time for Esmond to spend another year in Edinburgh, can he make it?! Only through the power of FRIENDSHIP AND RELEVANT SKILLS.
It’s not so much that I don’t like applying for jobs as the whole process fills me with such a sense of bewilderment and dread and isolation. And I’d like to bet that it does the same for some of you too. Let’s sit in New Amphion with beers and coffees and beers and apply for jobs together. All welcome, including the employed, because I know none of them will be able to come anyway, the bastards. x
You told me that you went looking for my ex online. No biggie,
I don’t mind. I think it’s funny; I think that I would be curious;
I think fair’s fair and call off my self-imposed moratorium
On tapping through your photos from before we met.
Profile \ Photos \ The left cursor key on repeat.
This is boring.
I turn off the computer.
When do I next see you?
We three, sat on lap, chair, settee;
My cat, my mother and me, reposing to
Composer of the Week on Radio 3: Rachmaninoff.
The day draws in outside
But within this warm space,
Things stop happening,
As we doze.
Words of a brazen tenor swell,
But that sound I’ve never quite liked and I wait for
Breaks and crashes.
The cat is unperturbed.
She purrs first lively,
Then descends into unbroken cat nap,
Finding my fleshy soft spots for a pillow.
Doom-laden trumpet and chorus won’t wake her.
I playfully tap a tin box,
And she jerks.
His sonata for piano and ‘cello:
The piano frantically buzzes about;
The ‘cello swoops and dives through
Scatter-graph paths of least resistance,
Tethered to its companion.
And Mum snores.
Aw e t , ir r hy t hmi ci nt erfe r e nc ein the radio broadcast.
It makes no difference to frown and clasp my hands together,
Listening hard through just a spot of turbulence in the concert hall:
##### ### # ####### ### ###### ######## # # ## #### ### # ####
It doesn’t cease and I resign,
Push back my head
And empty it with the others.
Life shouts loudest in the gentle quiet heat of midsummer’s night.
Suburban cars lazily… hastily spread their paintbrush of white noise
Watercolour echoes strewn around and behind the skyline
Perimeter and circuit.
Life over-boils and patters out of the engine wash and brush strokes
Supremely at ease and at home.
Crinkling and creaking and clicking
Creeping into the day’s rain, savouring the ever
Fresh taste of the late droplets
That close their eyes
Through and beyond the neighbours’ back gardens, the waves push in and the sky is still blue.