14 October 2008

Longing for quiet company.

I'm having a terrible off-week at work. Constantly angry to a point I don't recognize myself.
Have been able to voice my anger (which is something I usually don't do, it takes a long time before I burst and rupture, this time it took half an hour). Damn project is getting nowhere and despite all evidence and fact delivered by the tester (aka me) there is no guidance, no management, no decisions, no backbones.

No solution in sight, out of my hands. The people in charge don't have the balls to pull the plug - something has to give, and soon. If they don't dare - I do!

Dead horses are dead, no matter how much we pull at them. They don't get up after three days, they rather start to smell.

Must not forget to breath.
And it's okay to be sad and desperate - after eight months of frustration and nothing to show for it's okay to have enough. So much time and effort. I don't want to invest and continue to invest into something were nobody can, wants and is able to tell me what the direction is. No alignment between parties, meetings held, important remarks being marked as interruption rather than what they have been, expectations created only to be retracted half an hour later. Because management didn't check with tester on what issues are.
Structural solutions required, but not appreciated.

Damn perfectionist little me.
I was feeling better, getting better. Four working days destroyed that.
Angry, but also at myself for relapsing.

Lost In Crowds

I get lost in crowds: if I can, I remain invisible
to the hungry mouths. I stay unapproachable.
I wear the landscape of the urban chameleon.
Scarred by attention. And quietly addicted to innocence.

So, who am I? Come on: ask me, I dare you.
So, who am I? Come on: question me, if you care to.
And why not try to interrogate this apparition?
I melt away to get lost in this quaint condition.

At starry parties where, amongst the rich and the famous
I’m stuck for words: or worse, I blether with the best of them.
I see their eyes glaze and they look for the drinks tray.
Something in the drift of my conversation bothers them.

So, who am I? Come on: ask me, etc.

In scary airports, in concourses over-filled,
I am detached in serious observation.
As a passenger, I become un-tethered when
I get lost in clouds: at home with my own quiet company.

Herald Tribune or USA Today. Sauvignon Blanc or oaky Chardonnay.
Asleep for the movie. Awake for the dawn
dancing on England and hedgerows –
embossed on a carpet of green. I descend and –
forgive me – I mean to get lost in crowds.

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