Written 21/7/2011

When Im in the city, for my work, I walk fast. Always. Im never in a hurry but I always walk fast. Because the city is in a hurry. In a hurry to get wherever its going, to be biger and faster and scarier. Becuase the city is scary. Standing bold. We dont work for a company or a firm, we work for the city. We are its minions. Slaves to the concrete.
 
I dont work here because I like it, i thought I would, before I started, but I dont. Buildings snear at me to look down on me, blocking the sun, menacingly, blocking the sun. Even the windows, the windows give nothing away, reflecting our own scared faces. Taunting us with our own face. I wonder what would happen if we smashed all the windows, poked holes in them, laughed that they were broken. Do you think they would frown? Be ashamed that we punctured its facade? Feel nude and fall down? Its insides bourn out for us to stare at?
 
The people, the city people, they want to look strong, they want to look like masters. Minions thought they are. They don't realise that they too, are slaves to the concrete. The concrete takes us over, makes hairs turn grey, our faces grey and peaky, even our suits, black and white, that makes grey. I'd like to count the grey hairs on this city, every one of them. I'd like to count the progress of our building masters.
 
Nothing sways here, so many things move but othing sways. The cars and the people, they are stiff, walk stiff, drive stiff, smile stiff, "thank you for this moring coffee, hi, I'm stiff." Id like to see them sway. Just once, see everyone sway and dance. And then sleep. These minions need sleep.

Try This For Size.

Written on 06/07/2011

This is the hardest part of growing up. Knowing that you’re not perfect, that something about you doesn’t fit the criteria. And everyone is competing, always. For jobs, for parking spots, for rental properties. Always competing and you cant always win. Some people are winners and some people are losers. I am in the process of figuring out if I am a winner or a loser and if that can ever change.

While I write this, I sit on a train. White shirt, black slacks and no smile. I look corporate. I type fast and don’t worry about the spelling mistakes. It makes me look good to type this way. I look corporate. I look like I matter.

What they don’t know is that I am actually on my way to a job interview. I still have people to impress. I am glad they can’t see what I write. I allow them to think that I matter, that I fit in the world.  I don’t want them to know how hard it is for me to pay the rent and the bills, that right now I have an electricity bill that I cant pay, that I go home alone and eat to make it go away.

On this train, I feel big, like an adult, like I’m respected. When I get to Sydney terminal I know I will shrink. The world will feel too big and I will act too small. I could always try the old “fake it 'till you make it” strategy and hope that I don’t lose my nerve.