Talking About the Revolution

Phone rings. I pick it up and say hello a couple of times. All I get from the other end is the sound of someone shuffling papers. I let this continue for five seconds, then cut it off.

Am I cross? No, not really. I'd rather listen to papers being shuffled than to a sales pitch. And I salute the fucked-offedness of the unknown telesales person. He/she is cutting (however minutely) into the profits of some big corporation.

Self v Self

I thought about posting a poem earlier, one that chimed with something a friend had written in her journal. Trouble is it was an old poem- ten years old or thereabouts. I fetched it from its file and even began correcting it, and then thought, no, this ain't mine, this is the work of someone I used to be; to post it now would be a kind of plagiarism.

My old self and my current self hold quite different views. I find his enthusiasms embarrassing and even a little insincere. I want to tell him to grow up.

(Which, of course, he did.)

There he is in the corner now. My God, he's got long hair and a beard!

And where's his sense of humour?

What a sweetly sanctimonious face! How his eyes glisten with compassion! Does he presume to pity me?

Well let him; I don't give a stuff what he thinks!