Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Love in the time of Recession.

Which hand?
Wrong answer.

Whoever said the recession won’t hit the Ivy Leagues had no idea what they were talking about. It crept into duvets and sleeves, through ill-fitted windows and made its way into cheery little seminars on saving the world from itself. So we sat for long hours and filled out online forms and wrote a tailored cover letter to each firm. They all seemed to want a reason to reject you so you did your best to not give one. When they asked why this firm, you told them there was something really special about how they married technology and consulting, human resources and consulting, banana split and ape shit. You make buildings out of conversation. When they asked why this area of work you pretend you’re not overqualified but they know you are so they say no. They tell you there isn’t enough numbers in you.

When he turns up at your door at one at night, you tell him no and that you’re busy. The flowers wait on the table for some water and then die there. You hope someone will make them disappear. You sit through numerical tests and logical tests and verbal reasoning tests. He waits with a midnight cigarette. You give interview upon interview and wait for the rejections to dole out like dominos. They always come, as does he. You ignore both.

He buys perfume he knows you can’t resist. He licks off revenue figures from your ribs. You tell yourself he can wait because you worked all your life for the rest of this and it’d be such a shame to lose it all now when you can get it all. There’s a string of defaults, first people can’t pay, then banks can’t pay, then governments can’t pay. You cry for Lehman, then Greece, then Europe. The world around you collapses and you hope that they’ll save Europe, though they didn’t save Lehman. But countries are not banks and the same rules don’t apply.

The same rules don’t apply.

As the sun sets, the Euro zone is still there, but he isn’t.

Be afraid to blink, sometimes
People are moments and moments pass.

Friday, November 18, 2011

That place.

This would not have happened if I hadn’t missed my plane
I would have been there when they told you I’m the rat within the grain
Within this big misunderstanding now, I’m being misunderstood
I’m thinking someone’s trying to fuck with me, and set fire to my wood

“Kiss me”
And with that one word, I fell out of love.

It’s a stupid situation now where everything goes wrong
If you can’t tell if I am lying, then you do not belong
In my bed, go rest your head upon the bones of a bigger man
He can cover you with rock wool and you can close up like a clam

Before I fell asleep that night, you read out Rumi
‘Away –
From the concepts of right-doing and wrong-doing
There is a field:
I shall meet you there.’

Perhaps I will tell you tomorrow.

So go play with your piano, write a mediocre song
Out of your shell of mediocrity, pretend that nothing’s wrong...

I only want it to be wonderful and wonderful is true
In truth I only really wanted to be wanted by you

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Monet on Wall Street.

"... And that's the formula for success."
Success. Ha-ha. Like you'd know.

There's only so long a financial economist will handle the abstract wanderings of a tortured artist. An artist, who would ask whether the sun would rise and set the same way over the City as it did beyond it. An artist who would want a date that involved dinghy cafes and long walks and portraits, and then want for them to be not called dates. An artist who had overestimated the net present value of his art,created a bubble and then chose to isolate himself from the world and live in it, and yet somehow managed to find a buyer who trudged through his irrational exuberance.

Artists, they saw faces within faces and people in them. Sometimes the moon became a temple which became the surrender in a passion-filled iris, or pupil was it called? Sometimes the scratch of nails upon acrylics, sometimes the slide of a tongue over it, sometimes drawing with white upon white and creating layers upon layers for generations of addicts to uncover and dream about in their transcendent experiences. Only they could want more than someone who made the lows infrequent and less intense. They wanted more. They wanted something brilliant, and outrageous, and ultimately, some greater love which wasn't mediocre like all else in life so that when their eyes collided with a stranger on the train back home, there was always a story, the hopes of a story, the thirst, the rain-dance, the promise of surrender, always the departure in a stampede of three hundred feet, the loss and always, always the frustration. It was what kept them going, kept their fantasies living as breathing ghosts in the midst of men and made them so much more real than all of them.

But there were rules, and the sheer disregard of an artist for them confound and exhaust the profit-maximizing mind. You never tell an artist you don't want to kiss them, and when you do, they design a pattern like market volatility and when you don't, they get their paint all over your mouth.

You don't fight with an artist either, because they don't know reason and without it, there's no debate but only argument. You can love them though, but as all sane men come to discover, that doesn't involve much reason.