O Beware My Lord Of Jealousy
I have no reason to be jealous of anyone.
Not really. You could die the death of a thousand tweaks trying to remodel your life by increments; it's a mug's game. I have the luxury of being able to work on things that interest me. Odd things occasionally sneak into my life and lead to disparate projects, some of which even, rarely, pay me. I relish the opportunities I have to work creatively and the sweet freebie of therapy that comes with it, exorcising the demons with each stroke of the key. I love and am loved, which feels both rare and strange.
I see people around me doing well and I wish them well with their successes. By and large they have worked hard, they have talent, they have a bank of useful and transferable skills and they can work a room, which I, despite nearly half a century of experience (FUCK!), I seem utterly incapable of doing. The stuttering Hugh Grant routine may have worked in the 90's when I was thin and charming and had eyelashes like a weeping willow, but as I wade into the silver smudge of my middle years, I may have to take a different tack. I don't want to live like gammon people but its not really my choice any more.
Jealousy is childish. It is self-defeating. It poisons the well of your being; it corrodes and diminishes. And I try to quash it; I am not at home to the green eyed monster, and I don't want it mocking my meat as it feeds - no man does, its a primal fear!
Never-the-less, at the moment I am jealous. Stupidly.
And its social media based again, of course. I wean myself off it, I stop posting, I limit myself to describing the films I'm watching, but it still finds a way. Its aim is false but it still finds its quarry.
I read something today that made me seethe with jealousy. No, not seethe, that's silly. It made me flush with jealousy. It made my lips tighten, my Adam's apple expand to the girth of a cricket ball, and my guts churn like bitter butter.
It was, is, not a pleasant feeling and was inspired purely by someone doing well in their chosen field for reasons that had nothing to do with their skills within that field. In my opinion. I see people doing well all the time, engaged in the performance of something objectionably poor or crass or inept and it doesn't bother me - if it didn't I wouldn't be able to get out of bed in the morning. The world is full of people doing barely enough to get by excepting their surprising fluency with an invoice, and being enabled by cheerleaders expectorating praise like it was hot phlegm. It happens every day. I'm used to it. My own hole remains defiantly smoke-free. Every body else's looks like a 1970's pub ceiling.
It doesn't matter. On this occasion a barb hit home; it found my Achilles' cankle. No matter, I have typed out my frustration. Most of this blog was karate chopped out with heel of my palm. Some of the more aggressive punctuation was done with a toe punt. I winded the keyboard, it's gone puce and is holding itself up on the arm of the sofa.
Its fine. That's how they win. They let you eat yourself up from the inside out. Fuck 'em. I'll eat them.
And I'll spit them out. They'll be able to recognise the bodies by MY dental records.
Not really. You could die the death of a thousand tweaks trying to remodel your life by increments; it's a mug's game. I have the luxury of being able to work on things that interest me. Odd things occasionally sneak into my life and lead to disparate projects, some of which even, rarely, pay me. I relish the opportunities I have to work creatively and the sweet freebie of therapy that comes with it, exorcising the demons with each stroke of the key. I love and am loved, which feels both rare and strange.
I see people around me doing well and I wish them well with their successes. By and large they have worked hard, they have talent, they have a bank of useful and transferable skills and they can work a room, which I, despite nearly half a century of experience (FUCK!), I seem utterly incapable of doing. The stuttering Hugh Grant routine may have worked in the 90's when I was thin and charming and had eyelashes like a weeping willow, but as I wade into the silver smudge of my middle years, I may have to take a different tack. I don't want to live like gammon people but its not really my choice any more.
Jealousy is childish. It is self-defeating. It poisons the well of your being; it corrodes and diminishes. And I try to quash it; I am not at home to the green eyed monster, and I don't want it mocking my meat as it feeds - no man does, its a primal fear!
Never-the-less, at the moment I am jealous. Stupidly.
And its social media based again, of course. I wean myself off it, I stop posting, I limit myself to describing the films I'm watching, but it still finds a way. Its aim is false but it still finds its quarry.
I read something today that made me seethe with jealousy. No, not seethe, that's silly. It made me flush with jealousy. It made my lips tighten, my Adam's apple expand to the girth of a cricket ball, and my guts churn like bitter butter.
It was, is, not a pleasant feeling and was inspired purely by someone doing well in their chosen field for reasons that had nothing to do with their skills within that field. In my opinion. I see people doing well all the time, engaged in the performance of something objectionably poor or crass or inept and it doesn't bother me - if it didn't I wouldn't be able to get out of bed in the morning. The world is full of people doing barely enough to get by excepting their surprising fluency with an invoice, and being enabled by cheerleaders expectorating praise like it was hot phlegm. It happens every day. I'm used to it. My own hole remains defiantly smoke-free. Every body else's looks like a 1970's pub ceiling.
It doesn't matter. On this occasion a barb hit home; it found my Achilles' cankle. No matter, I have typed out my frustration. Most of this blog was karate chopped out with heel of my palm. Some of the more aggressive punctuation was done with a toe punt. I winded the keyboard, it's gone puce and is holding itself up on the arm of the sofa.
Its fine. That's how they win. They let you eat yourself up from the inside out. Fuck 'em. I'll eat them.
And I'll spit them out. They'll be able to recognise the bodies by MY dental records.
.jpg)
Comments
Post a Comment