These last days I'm having quite some trouble to write here, and also at Hókisasszony, since I pretty much find myself quite wired up in one topic rather than many, and I really don't like repeating myself. I know, for some it might sound unfair, because those who can't read Hungarian, can't read the stuff I write there, and those who read Hungarian but can't read English don't get to understand what I post here. I know the feeling, so I know how unfair is. Back in the days when I was an enthusiast LJ-er with my days and posts filled with the most luscious, whimsical fanfiction, I remember hating so much when a friend or acquintance of mien wrote a story in German, or an entry in one of those languages that seem to use little maggots to write, and I didn't get a thing of it.
Oh well, life isn't supposed to be fair, I guess.
Today is the first day of the week, another work-week and it already started... trampled. My dad has restriction Today, so he should have left the car at home and take the bus, but instead, as every Monday, decided to leave early so he would be at the office before 6 am. That's something he always do. Then, as usual, once he finished up taking breakfast started urging me, pretending he has been waiting for me for the longest of times. Childish, really, so I told him to stop pretending, that I knew very well he had just finished eating, so there was no reason for his blaming me. Childish as he is, the poor thing, he wasn't gonna give up so easily, so he declared that he was getting the car out of the garage.
"You do that," I said calmly as I was putting on my contacts lens.
"And I won't wait for you! I'll leave now!"
Sweet Lord, is he learning manners from my nephew?
"Sure Dad, you do that," I told him.
Then I heard a big tire screeching as he left. I should be mad, but I was oddly smiling and feeling quite well. Finished with the arrangings and so, called a cab, got to the bus and went to the office. On the way to the office I listed to my favorite radio station where one of my favorite presentators, Marge, was showering the world with her raspy voice and her chirp spirit. All the oldies I love were pouring into my ears mixed with news and ads, and it kind of felt nice. It felt like freedom.
At the office things were as usual. A coworker who lent a comb from me weeks ago wasn't there, when I was planning on stalking her to get my comb back. By now, I guess it would be better if I just buy a new one, and if I ever get the old one back, salt it and burn it. One never knows where that comb could have been. Lesson learned, though: Don't lend combs unless the person requesting it is giving it back on the spot. Damned, and it was such a good comb. So, the comb-thief wasn't there, and Mrs. Invisible was playing Casper The Ghost again, running from here to there with her mobile glued to her ear while everybody was looking for her. Then, the people we are supposed to meet with Today in the afternoon, which we agreed last week, decided to pretend that the meeting was for tomorrow. Well, this is when the proverbial crap hits the proverbial fan.
These people are incredibly irresponsable with their job. Half assed documents, excuses, and a compulsive need to place the blame for lack of information, documents not delievered in time and so on. To my dismay, Mrs. Invisible the unofficial boss of the area, decided that it was okay not to have the meeting, that we should have it some other day, Thursday perhaps, though either way she wasn't assisting because she had other things to do. So, she's bailing out of the project, but she still fucks up the arrangements?
After fuming for a moment, I stopped for a moment to think. Dad, these people and the Mrs. Invisible suffer of the same "illness": they are unable to be responsible, but rather make a huge mess out of something that could be, otherwise, be easily fixed. Dad could have said that we leave in 10 minutes, these people could have told us on Friday that Today was a bad day for a meeting, even though we had arranged it priorly, and Mrs. Invisible could have said she's bailing out of the project, and leave the meeting arranging to us, my other coworker and I, who will be the ones shouldering it anyway. But why didn't they? Because all of them want to make the decisions, but none of them is willing to shoulder up the responsability.
They are not the only ones to live that way. Decision making is often related to a kind of "power", something that's enticing to many, and so people often want to be in a decision making position. But responsability frightens them, and so they escape from it, quickly looking for escape goats or twists and turns to loose the trail. This kind of people are cowards. They want the surface, the illusion, but fret the content, and so live their lives on the surface, struggling to remain afloat, remain always on the looks, while their insides hollow up and dies.
It's sad. It kind of make you pity them. Why the need of the drama? Why the need of working the surface, pretend and live with the threat of being caught? Charades can be held up only for so long, they are not eternal. So why to do it? Why not to be real? Real is not bad, it's good and peaceful. It makes you live with ease, on the solid ground, without second guessing every movement around you. Why torture oneself, live in a soap opera filled with fake facts, goals and expectations?
These people are dead, they are just refusing to lie down in their coffins.
Oh well, life isn't supposed to be fair, I guess.
Today is the first day of the week, another work-week and it already started... trampled. My dad has restriction Today, so he should have left the car at home and take the bus, but instead, as every Monday, decided to leave early so he would be at the office before 6 am. That's something he always do. Then, as usual, once he finished up taking breakfast started urging me, pretending he has been waiting for me for the longest of times. Childish, really, so I told him to stop pretending, that I knew very well he had just finished eating, so there was no reason for his blaming me. Childish as he is, the poor thing, he wasn't gonna give up so easily, so he declared that he was getting the car out of the garage.
"You do that," I said calmly as I was putting on my contacts lens.
"And I won't wait for you! I'll leave now!"
Sweet Lord, is he learning manners from my nephew?
"Sure Dad, you do that," I told him.
Then I heard a big tire screeching as he left. I should be mad, but I was oddly smiling and feeling quite well. Finished with the arrangings and so, called a cab, got to the bus and went to the office. On the way to the office I listed to my favorite radio station where one of my favorite presentators, Marge, was showering the world with her raspy voice and her chirp spirit. All the oldies I love were pouring into my ears mixed with news and ads, and it kind of felt nice. It felt like freedom.
At the office things were as usual. A coworker who lent a comb from me weeks ago wasn't there, when I was planning on stalking her to get my comb back. By now, I guess it would be better if I just buy a new one, and if I ever get the old one back, salt it and burn it. One never knows where that comb could have been. Lesson learned, though: Don't lend combs unless the person requesting it is giving it back on the spot. Damned, and it was such a good comb. So, the comb-thief wasn't there, and Mrs. Invisible was playing Casper The Ghost again, running from here to there with her mobile glued to her ear while everybody was looking for her. Then, the people we are supposed to meet with Today in the afternoon, which we agreed last week, decided to pretend that the meeting was for tomorrow. Well, this is when the proverbial crap hits the proverbial fan.
These people are incredibly irresponsable with their job. Half assed documents, excuses, and a compulsive need to place the blame for lack of information, documents not delievered in time and so on. To my dismay, Mrs. Invisible the unofficial boss of the area, decided that it was okay not to have the meeting, that we should have it some other day, Thursday perhaps, though either way she wasn't assisting because she had other things to do. So, she's bailing out of the project, but she still fucks up the arrangements?
After fuming for a moment, I stopped for a moment to think. Dad, these people and the Mrs. Invisible suffer of the same "illness": they are unable to be responsible, but rather make a huge mess out of something that could be, otherwise, be easily fixed. Dad could have said that we leave in 10 minutes, these people could have told us on Friday that Today was a bad day for a meeting, even though we had arranged it priorly, and Mrs. Invisible could have said she's bailing out of the project, and leave the meeting arranging to us, my other coworker and I, who will be the ones shouldering it anyway. But why didn't they? Because all of them want to make the decisions, but none of them is willing to shoulder up the responsability.
They are not the only ones to live that way. Decision making is often related to a kind of "power", something that's enticing to many, and so people often want to be in a decision making position. But responsability frightens them, and so they escape from it, quickly looking for escape goats or twists and turns to loose the trail. This kind of people are cowards. They want the surface, the illusion, but fret the content, and so live their lives on the surface, struggling to remain afloat, remain always on the looks, while their insides hollow up and dies.
It's sad. It kind of make you pity them. Why the need of the drama? Why the need of working the surface, pretend and live with the threat of being caught? Charades can be held up only for so long, they are not eternal. So why to do it? Why not to be real? Real is not bad, it's good and peaceful. It makes you live with ease, on the solid ground, without second guessing every movement around you. Why torture oneself, live in a soap opera filled with fake facts, goals and expectations?
These people are dead, they are just refusing to lie down in their coffins.
1 comment:
Pues la verdad es que comparto tu opinión. Igual yo llego a la oficina, y la hora laboral no empieza sino que a las 7 am, y vos sabés muy bien que ese rato antes no te lo pagan, no te lo reconocen, ni siquiera si te vas un minuto antes, así que para qué estresarse la existencia más de lo necesario?
Post a Comment