Best laid plans of insects and men

A window cleaner came to my flat today. He cleaned windows. I hear that they are known to do so occasionally.

The window cleaner himself was not of great importance. Or he was. I don't know yet. But something he did got me thinking about a blog I wrote for work a while back. It was for work. It was about ants.  I think this window man was, in part, magical, because he has conjured up within me the grit to finish off a blog I've been meddling with for some time.

It all began (in a work blog long ago) with ants. The short version of that blog ran like so:

I was on a holiday. I noticed ants. Masses of them. They descended down the house from the roof onto the ground then off through the countryside. Some of them carried little bits of green or yellow debris but 99% carried nothing. I couldn't figure them out. I'm no ant expert after all. 

I followed them. They knew something I didn't. Chances are it was important to ants and not so important for me but I had to find out. Maybe they were treasure ants. I'll never know because whilst following I lost them under a bush surrounded by long grass.

And that's how the blog went. By and large. Super abbreviated. I'd forgotten I'd wrote it. In the blog I noted I'd forgotten the ants. 

The window-man gave this fistful of remembrance to me.

I can trace the steps in my brain from his actions. These actions however come with their own back story. Wheels within wheels and my mind at the centre of it all. Recognising patterns, or forcing them where none exist...

The preamble:

There were two different spiders outside the window. They've been there since we (the GF and I) moved in months ago. One lives on the window itself and the other on a wall across from it. Had I took them in and inspected them under a hydroelectric microscopiphier surely I would see that one was made from the base elements of chalk and the other from the beginnings of cheese for that is how much like chalk and cheese they were. They were dissimilar and no doubt held a healthy xenophobia for each other. At the very least they didn't invite each other round for tea and, in fact, I didn't see them socialise ONCE.

The one across from the window, on the wall, was a massive, proud, puffed up bastard of a spider. An architect by trade. I think he was building a spider palace.

The smaller one on the window was up top, immovable, a mother I suspected (due to her little cocoon of what looked like eggs) but equally it may have been the nest of another spider and this one had offed the mother and was waiting for the eggs to hatch so he (or she) could gorge on spider-babies. I have no idea how spiders' minds work but I can guess.

The mother/baby eater (depending on your school of thought) was immovable by any force within her spider world. That's a given. However this window cleaner fella wasn't from her world. He did her in but good.

I think he thought I fancied him. Staring as I was at him, then a space above him (where the spider was oblivious to his wiper of doom drawing ever nearer) I surely resembled a simple loon. He thought my brain addled by love, drugs or genetics. Actually I don't think he noticed me. He was fixated on his craft. The craft of making a window invisible.

I don't even think he noticed the spider. Maybe he did but just didn't have an issue with spiders. I guess Darwin would breed that out of window cleaners. Girly hysterics at the top of a ladder can't lead to a long and healthy life. 

Essentially all these insects (and the window-man) had plans. Complex plans. I had no idea what these were but I imagine they were as logical to them as my own plans are to me.

Each of these insect memories (memories I've associated with insects not memories from insects implanted into my brain - an awesome science fiction scenario actually) has reinforced an internal belief of mine. The belief that in the end, I am going to be jerked around by a huge external force.

My finely laid plans, daily, weekly, monthly and (rarely though I think this far ahead) yearly, all amount to nothing. Why should I endeavour, strongly, in any direction?

If I did and then I ended up drafted into a war against China and find myself curled into a ball - or as much of a ball as my shell ridden body will allow - in some blitzed clearing in a bamboo forest in the tropical regions of that great dragon of a country, why then I'd look positively stupid.

Imagine my thought process as I feel my life ebb into the soil. I will wonder what those at home will think when they see that Christmas jumper I bought in the market. Or when they see that small tribal bongo sitting on my desk beside the cacti (cactuses, cactods). They'll think, "He was clearly going to learn how to play the bongo this Christmas. Maybe he would have worn that jumper and that hat that would have looked like a goldfish eating his head (when he was alive) and performed for those nearest to him." And they'd shed a tear.

But that's not it at all! That stuff, lots of stuff actually, doesn't matter one bit.

And I think that's why I write and I think that's about the most direct way I can say it without descending into cliché or grubbing about in a long worded, convoluted way (I swear, this is direct).

I don't want folks to think that everything I do or say matters. I want to direct their eyes at the things I really think are important.

I want to exhibit the parts of me that I think make sense and explain how the rest of it is just a bit of a laugh really.

Berry dangerous

This is a little extract from what I've written so far for the Nanowrimo event.

I don't want to jinx myself, or spread those negative vibes but the realist in me says that I'm so very, very far behind that I'm doomed.

The positive, shiny man living within my bosom reassures me that the whole event is an exercise geared toward starting your engine. Am I right?

Anyway, this extract hasn't been fully proof read, edited or structured so it's more of a lazy update to a blog project I might abandon at any moment!

What a treat, eh?

‘Roarrrrrrrrghhhhmmmmmmmmsfff,’ Stan Serep made a sound like a noisy lion eating toffee. He had had a tooth ache for a week and he was desperate for relief. Random sound and an argumentative demeanor was the twofold cure he’d prescribed for himself, for this day. He tried new things every day. It was better than following the advice of the local doc. The doctor in his village did not study teeth. He’d studied something like ‘Plant poultices, natural light and their interrelation’. His diploma cited it as evidence for competence in treating human ailments. The doctor had, when told by Stan of his explosive toothache, given him a poultice to apply at noon when the sun was highest and at night when the moon was brightest. The poultice, which if Stan was being honest tasted of seaweed and not much else, had so far helped very little. Even if Stan wasn’t as careful with the application times as he was told to be. He just didn’t see the point. Stan didn’t see the point in much these days apart from ‘berry.

He was sitting in his kitchen attempting to gum down some porridge without the gruel touching his gums or teeth. He was swallowing it fast and it was hot. It was likely he was scalding his eating passages quite thoroughly but as long as his tooth wouldn’t suffer the sticky, soft, excruciating substance he could deal with internal burns later.

His wife was watching him. Wide eyed and curious. You’d think she’d never seen a man with a toothache eat porridge so noisily before. At the best of times his wife, who cooked, cleaned and tended to his rare sexual whims was a necessary evil. Like soap. You might need it and, to be sure it proved useful at times but for the most part it was something you needed because everyone else used it and other people would ‘smell something fishy’ if you avoided it. The dependence was limiting and cloying. Stan wasn’t a bright man though and he hadn’t thought of an alternative.

He took his tooth pain and his inability to think of creative solutions to problems out on her. “Why in berry’s name do you keep looking at me when I’m in pain and trying to eat this muck you cooked for me? It’s like a two pronged attack on my dignity woman!”

Sybil ignored his attempt to start a lovely, distractive fight. “Why don’t you talk to the tree in the garden?” 

He’d mentioned his pain to his wife when it was just an itty bitty thing, something novel he could complain about. She’d suggested ablution to the spirits. His wife, bless her, had a staunch belief in the Shamans of old. This could be attributed to the time she’d begged a tree in their back garden for financial help and won the district lottery the very next day. She swore the tree had whispered back to her and thanked her for the spicy ghoulash she’d brought to smear over it’s branches.

Sometimes Stan worried about Sybil Serep. Everyone knew the Shaman were either made up entirely or exaggerated showmen from ages past. They were in either case impractical solutions for his toothache. 

“But why talk to the middle man?!” Stan exclaimed with caustic emphais, “I can just ask the spoon here - everyone knows the spoon is the direct source of shamanistic energy. The tree is just the seed that grew from a seed and together they make a ton of spoons.” 

He stooped low over the table and eyed his porridge crusted spoon, “Hello spoon,” he lowered his voice in mock-reverence for this deified piece of cutlery, “I don’t suppose you could cure my toothache could you O’ Mighty Spoon. I will forever be in your debt and will wash you in the liquid milked from holy cows and unspoiled virginal teats.”

His wife screwed up her race, “You should try. It worked for me. Being a smartypants about it won’t help you in any way shape or form. I’m going to wash up.”

Stan put his head in his arms on top of the table and blotted out all light. Hidden in his arm-cave he could pretend his wife had risen to his bait and they were blissfully arguing up a storm. He tried it for a spell, using a lower voice than normal for himself and a high pitched sing-song voice for his wife, “Stan how dare you mock the lord spoon almighty. I’ll do what I want woman. You’ll do what’s expected of you - how long have you been off work now? How can a man harvest ‘berry when his tooth aches so? How can a woman respect her husband when he won’t provide for her. Bitch. Bastard. Berryspiller. Tree flirter!” 

He raised his head in a wobble necked arc to stare at his wife’s behind as she tidied up. Damn women. Damn them and their shapely behinds. “Maybe I will see a shaman. Then it won’t work and then what will you do?”

“But darling it will work.”

He groaned. 

Minesorrow

I'm sitting in a fancy, beautiful, modern apartment. I'm in the main room and it's night. The stars and moon shine through the windows. There's animals outside but not in here. Not in this dark place.

The torches are flickering and their burning light shows the slick, red, wet blood covering my arms and my face. The blood is streaked with tears. I'm crying and I'm not ashamed.

For a while things were good. I'd built my perfect home in no time at all.

I headed north from my homeland into the snow and the harsh, icy beauty.  I was looking for that perfect spot to build my new home.

I found a cliff face that had a conjoined, elephant's trunk of stone cascading out and down to the frozen water below. The stone was good, the views from the upper half of the cliff face stunning.

I gouged my way in, hollowed that mother out and started boring windows in the rock. I got carried away and before I knew it I had a skyscraper wall of glass facing out on three sides. The sunset and sunrise were stunning.

From inside, I could see the animals at play on the skin of their ancient cliff home, a skin made mostly from glass now. They looked like they had a swell time. It reminded me of all I left behind. All I missed in the night when there was no sun and no moon to light my way.

A guy gets lonely y'know? One night as I hid in the top floor I saw a sheep staring in at me making a mess of the glass. Licking and baaing with a confused look on his face. He reminded me of my old pal - Steve. I dislodged the window and let Steve in. He was a frolickin' and a fidgetin' all night but his antics lit up my face like a Christmas tree.

As I worked on the plans for my new extension - out from the cliff face and into the inner side of the elephant's trunk - I couldn't stop smiling. I felt more at peace than I had in months.

Dawn was coming. I was going to get started as soon as it was safe out, but I had this feeling that Steve would try to get out, as any critter will. So I decided I'd have to pen him in. I got some stone blocks and tried to herd him into a corner.

He threw a wary look at me as he backed away.

I managed to get him walled in with the first tier of blocks but he was faster than I and just hopped over them knocking me down on my ass. I'd have to detach the first tier and start again or I'd have sheep pens all over the place.

I got out my pick axe and I took a swing at the rock to dislodge it. I hit it and sparks flew. I shoved the first loose block into my store room. I came back to repeat the process again. I raised my axe again and swang again, harder. Steve flew in front of me, freaked by the noise and commotion.

I couldn't pull the pick back in time.

I'm sitting in a blocky, blood filled apartment. The torches are flickering lower now and their fragile light shows the dark wet patches covering my arm, my face. 

I'm crying and I am ashamed. 

Why the hell did I move? Seems that bad things just follow me around like the beasts outside, in the dark,with their demented howling, with the whine of arrows and the click of bone on stone...

If I can make it to the morning I'll look for another Steve. God please let me make it to the morning.

Time

I was fiddling with blog settings as I'm sure most bloggers do and I noticed that the 'time' settings were much more ... interesting than the types of drop down fields I've met before.

I'm on UK or Ireland time, I usually select Dublin as it's near enough a direct line south and something in my head tells me this is important.

On the way through the options, starting at the 'Pacific' time I had been automatically assigned to, I traversed 'Central Time'. This stopped me for a minute. I don't like the thought that, for years now, I've been living to the beat of an off-centre drum. Time had seemed pretty central to me for a while now.

What is it the centre of? I'm going to guess (I usually hold my own in conversations by cunning, gut instinct and guess work) that it's the central area of America. If I allowed myself to think about it any more I'd just get too in depth and...

Woah!

There's 'Mountain Time'. This is awesome. I want to live on or in mountain time. This time is old time. From the time when times were men. Fashioned in the core of our world in intense pressure, when a volcano erupts the time escapes and animals and trees that grow around are accelerated through time at a horrific rate withering and dying like they've been touched by some fiery substance. Lava is just one of those optical illusions the brain plays to help you cope with something you can't understand (like seeing EVERYTHING upside down in reality).

Or maybe mountain time is time as kept by the mountains? If so we're probably just past midnight on the 1st of the 1st year one. Mountains can't possible comprehend time like we do! They're huge, mountainous and aloof to our constant fretting against the untouchable bars of time. They're immune, lords over time.

Scientists claim that mountains will be brought low at some point by time but pics or it didn't happen to be honest. I bet it's a rumour spread by time's allies (Casio, Oil of Olay and the like).

Anyway I've set my time to 'Dublin' now and the momentary excitement has fled. The clock is ticking quite normally and I have to say I'm a little disappointed to be back to 'normal' time.

Writing for myself

I've written, on and off, as a part of my job for a while now. What I haven't done is wrote about myself.

Maybe ten years from now the majority of society will be blogging on a personal level. Trillions of words in billions of posts by millions of users. No one will read much of that. Maybe it can be used to create a new form of energy? Wordergy. I think it's about time I got off my behind and added to this new eco-friendly energy source.

I'm writing for myself - that means writing stuff that I think is interesting. I'm also going to be honest. True to myself and my world.

I know that, if you want to make money, you should really write for an audience but I don't anticipate ever having much of an audience. If I did they'd be an audience (I hope) that would prefer to read something that was honest.

Maybe I'll draw a comic? I think I will. Won't be a moment. I'm no artiste.

It's not much of an effort. To be honest I don't anticipate doing it often, I felt like I was shoehorning myself into the style of a few of the more popular sites on the internet. I love them and love that child-friendly, mspaint style, but maybe that's not being honest to what a blog by me should be.

Do I want to be popular? Is that what I've just let slip, sub or super consciously by trying to emulate popular content?

Maybe I do. It'd be swell to make a living by writing alone (I bet Dorothy Chocolateface thought the same thing about her job tasting chocolate until she came to work hungover one day to see 2 kilograms of a new 'Salted Prawn' flavour chocolate stacked up on her gingerbread desk).

I've never sought fame or popularity. I think I just want a bit of personal online space so that future scientists can trace the life and tales of me.

It all boils down to mortality in the end doesn't it? Maybe I've stories to share before I die! Quick take these thoughts out of my skull before the organic matter within turns to mush.

I'm sure it's related so I'll add it in here: I'm taking part in nanorwrimo and it's great fun. I'm waaaay behind but I think the goal is to stop folks procrastinating (at least verbally) and to get them into a writing habit.

It kinda worked. Instead of chipping away at the 15,000 word deficit I've let engulf me, I'm meddling with a new blog.