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Funfiltered Episode #028 - "The Cellist Is on Mescaline"
A solitudinal shalom.
At 11:14 a.m. on this Thursday which did just path, I was subverting gender expectations and multi-tasking*. My continuing foray into all things ‘Netty has eroded my capacity for mono-tasking. To simply sit down and be is, I fear, a praxis now forever lost to me. So, I simultaneously found (lost) myself completing a jigsaw puzzle on Facebook, listening to a podcast the subject of which one fails to recall and contemplating securing a “VPN” to buy a gun off the dark web†.
The letterbox clacked. An envelope struck mat. Inside, a single page of hand-written text. Below it is replicated:
Hi hi hi, Mr. Kettle. I not know it before but you are my Guardian angel. When I work for you, I feel gloom and griefsome. But like Greek idiom tells, I jumped out of frying pan and into fire. I can not take more at Hope High Castle. Every room now feels like prison. Colour scheem make me feel gutsick. Bart Joyles ask me what it like to grow up in Poland and I spit at him for I proud child of Lietuva. I so so sorry about Bassett and Bart Joyles is fucking prick. Please allow me for to return. I help with computer and I make casserole. Also, Covid run rampage in hotel. Pfidze Lanka. [sic]
I am torn. On the one hand, I don’t think it will ever be possible for me to forgive Pfidze for her transgressions. She would have to work complimentarily for a not-insignificant amount of time and follow all edicts without question (no matter how farcical, demoralising or unreasonable) for me to even entertain the possibility of her re-employment. On the other hand, the loneliness has become physically distressing.
As I enumerated my indecision in the above paragraph, I thought it through and I consent. I know you’re reading, Pfidze. I expect you at my front door at 7 a.m. on the dot tomorrow morning. If I do not answer, it is because I am asleep. You will clear the cat turds from the pebbles as you wait.
*One shudders at the prospect of inflating one’s importance, so it is perhaps de rigueur to recast “multi-tasking” as “multi-doing”. “Task” implies an incident of consequence and there ain’t been none of that recently. Or, if I’m being honest, for quite some time. Rather quite some time.
†If you’ve been affected by any of the issues overt or covert in this blurb, the number for the Samaritans can be Googled 24/7.
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By Video VillageA solitudinal shalom.
At 11:14 a.m. on this Thursday which did just path, I was subverting gender expectations and multi-tasking*. My continuing foray into all things ‘Netty has eroded my capacity for mono-tasking. To simply sit down and be is, I fear, a praxis now forever lost to me. So, I simultaneously found (lost) myself completing a jigsaw puzzle on Facebook, listening to a podcast the subject of which one fails to recall and contemplating securing a “VPN” to buy a gun off the dark web†.
The letterbox clacked. An envelope struck mat. Inside, a single page of hand-written text. Below it is replicated:
Hi hi hi, Mr. Kettle. I not know it before but you are my Guardian angel. When I work for you, I feel gloom and griefsome. But like Greek idiom tells, I jumped out of frying pan and into fire. I can not take more at Hope High Castle. Every room now feels like prison. Colour scheem make me feel gutsick. Bart Joyles ask me what it like to grow up in Poland and I spit at him for I proud child of Lietuva. I so so sorry about Bassett and Bart Joyles is fucking prick. Please allow me for to return. I help with computer and I make casserole. Also, Covid run rampage in hotel. Pfidze Lanka. [sic]
I am torn. On the one hand, I don’t think it will ever be possible for me to forgive Pfidze for her transgressions. She would have to work complimentarily for a not-insignificant amount of time and follow all edicts without question (no matter how farcical, demoralising or unreasonable) for me to even entertain the possibility of her re-employment. On the other hand, the loneliness has become physically distressing.
As I enumerated my indecision in the above paragraph, I thought it through and I consent. I know you’re reading, Pfidze. I expect you at my front door at 7 a.m. on the dot tomorrow morning. If I do not answer, it is because I am asleep. You will clear the cat turds from the pebbles as you wait.
*One shudders at the prospect of inflating one’s importance, so it is perhaps de rigueur to recast “multi-tasking” as “multi-doing”. “Task” implies an incident of consequence and there ain’t been none of that recently. Or, if I’m being honest, for quite some time. Rather quite some time.
†If you’ve been affected by any of the issues overt or covert in this blurb, the number for the Samaritans can be Googled 24/7.