Honea Express

Posts Tagged ‘Work’

Popular thought suggests that there is a spark inside all of us. Personal experience is that some shine brighter than others. That doesn’t devalue anyone. It just is. Accept it or change it. It’s your spark.

Mine twists like a lighthouse in a windstorm. It is either lost through waves of bourbon or cutting through so much fog to find you like a spotlight. When I shine I want you to shine with me. It is lonely at the top.

We live in a land of opportunity. The cobblestones are plated gold. The dust a blend of pixie. But dreams are not granted to the masses. We must walk uphill in every way, knocking on doors and selling our wares and what passes for awareness. Don’t sell yours short. The highest bid is often the most careless.

And there are dark doors that figuratively represent whatever you need them to. Literally they are but hinged barriers to the path ahead. The light from the other side glows like a burning picture frame. It is an invitation. It is a warning. It has a handle that only needs to be turned.

Opening doors is why steps are taken.

It may require pause. New paths are hard to start and old paths end too quickly. The scene from the doorstep is of rolling hills and promise. My feet are tired and anxious. There is a stack of shoes in the foyer, each covered in potential and glowing with dust (the smaller shoes shine the brightest). The surrounding floor grows sterile and absent as it stretches down the hallway. I cannot remember if I am coming or going. I am paused, and I am wondering where to put my foot down.

Some look to the heavens when they have nowhere else to turn. Some look there first. I look up and I see stars that stretch forever. I find more perspective than answers.

Perhaps it is the time of year. Perhaps it is the wind in your hair. Life is a dance of wonder and melancholy, and each step brings a gasp, each spin leaves a smile. We are tussled and chapped, and the deeper the dip the more we feel alive.

Perhaps decisions are best made when we don’t know that we are making them. We are lost in the movement. We are paused before doorways. We are always looking for a better place.

That is what I am doing here, writing in circles and wasting language best spent on documents and deadlines — thirsty words wandering from waterhole to wonder and always with the stars in their eyes, always with the day’s dust behind them.

Popular thought suggests that there is a spark inside all of us. Mine is helping to keep us warm, and perhaps that is enough of a wonder for anyone.

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Photo by ImaRawkStar

And when the weight was heaviest the longest breaths were drawn and savored and exhaled like the spit of a thirsty man. The pressure was on the chest and maybe a knee to the stomach. It was a dance between two partners with one oblivious. It was the weight of the waiting and the lack of air left me drunk and grasping for distraction.

Things are in the mail and whispered in the dark and you know what they are. They are knives across my tongue and a mouthful of salt and vinegar.

It is a courtship. It is the wooing. This is high school and college and nights by phones when phones couldn’t follow you everywhere.  These are nights of songs replayed and too many notes soaked with sweat and a spray of Obsession. These are the nights we’ll laugh about when our ship comes in, and the stars will be the brightest they have ever been.

I need sleep. I need coffee.  I need to sign on a dotted line and throw my head back in tears and laughter. The waiting is the hardest part and the weight will find me sore come morning.

I tend to float and dance around the things that I must do. Deadlines are stones in my pockets, paperwork is an anchor around my neck and writing because I need to write is a pair of cement shoes weighing me forever downward.

And yet, writing because I need to write pays the bills. Deadlines are, obviously, necessary and important. Editing without paperwork is like breathing without air. I am living my dream and I lay awake at night.

Perhaps the grass is always greener. Perhaps I am never satisfied. Perhaps these are the glory days and someday I will remember them fondly.

I’m inclined to embrace the latter.

Still, I have never been further from the literary accomplishments for which I strive, and therein lies the rub. Such things require a firm stance and not the spin and dip of a drive-by tango. My lips have grown bloody from a mouthful of roses. Whiskey stings and lingers longer.

I need to spend less time writing because I need to and more time writing out of want. I need to want. It requires a tether and some discipline and a great deal of sacrifice.

It requires me to stay afloat even as I drop stone upon stone against the lining of my pocket.

It requires me to keep dreaming and to look forever upward. One breath at a time.

My wife has a new job. She is very good at it. Excellent in fact. She enjoys it and the company is the better for her being there.

One of the lesser links on the team is causing her trouble. The guy is a total dick. He is strongly disliked by the employees and most people that meet him. He doesn’t do his job, he lies and he disrespects everyone but his boss- his male boss anyway. He disrespects my wife openly and without remorse.

My wife is stubborn and not the easiest person to get close to, trust me, I’ve tried (that’s called comedic relief). She is, however, a professional and has gone to great lengths to accommodate the jackass. She has worked on the aspects of her personality that could possibly trigger whatever delusions that a coworker might harbor. He has not made an effort to bend or mend.

The company has big plans for my wife, she is an up and comer, a real prize for them. The jerk is an anchor with a nose layered in ass marks.

There are “talks” today to rectify the situation. I don’t know that it will. For reasons unknown, Jerk has the ear of a corporate guy, and that guy controls too much of my wife’s career for me to take it lightly.

Why am I writing this? Because I’m angry, and to be honest, I feel violent. I don’t ever feel violent. Okay, I get pissed and throw stuff once a year when Arizona loses in the tournament, but other than that I’m pretty mellow.

I don’t like seeing my wife come home, after slaving away for 12 hours, upset about Jerk instead of proud of the progress she is making. I don’t like that he is able to affect her to the point that it effects us.

The guy is like 5′nothing. 5’2″ with the goatee. I am dangerously close to kicking his ass.

That is probably the real reason I am writing this. If I have it in print that I want to kick his ass it becomes less likely that I will decide to do so. He’s the kind of weenie that would read this and press charges of pre-meditated whatever. Writing this makes me act like a grown-up and not come out swinging.

However, if these “talks” don’t make my wife feel better I may say “fuck it” and knock the jackass out. I have a feeling it would be worth it.