As Ives the Insurer

Ghosts of the past

Rising up in nightly dreams,

Wailing, clawing, resurrecting

Remembrance of damning deeds.

The artist cannot conjure

away these ghouls; but then,

a good artist sees in suffering

a Beauty impossible to ignore.

A confounding comparison:

That the haunting retinal light

of the past brings a

shiver of recognition - stunningly,

a similar sensation to

the insatiable inspiration of

a summer storm.

An artist, then, is not just an articulate auror; or

an accomplished authority in

"classic" contrivations!

No, like Ives the Insurer,

Any average Joe averaging

The standard forty-a-week

Willing to withstand the

waning structure of

Individuality,

Is capable of creating

Art: an attempt to

articulate the indescribable Beauty

found in ghoulish gleam

or summer storm.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

"An Artist," says he.

They chuckle.  "But what job do you want?  You need to make money, dear."

Downcast, he reverts to whatever his father does for a living.

"Oh, how sweet!"  And another Artist dies - giving way to to the blue-or-white collared prison known as the work force.

Being an Artist isn't an occupation, dear one.  It's a way of recognizing life.  There is Beauty in everything; it just needs to be discovered and appreciated for what it Is.

Are you a debt collector?  A mortician?  A hole-digger?  An insurer?  A librarian?  A marketer?  There is Artist in you: you only need to wake it.

Please, dear reader, don't kill the Artists.  If we are worth anything as humanity, it is only because, at some point, many, many years ago, there was Art.
Look for Your Art.  Maybe, when you grow up, you will find it.

Fellow Fallen Fairy

To my Fairy, for picking me up when I was Flightless.

One winged angel,

Feet firmly on the ground:

Earth bound,

Moping, moseying, meandering,

Living life in lurid grey,

Bemoaning broken wing,

Eyes ever downward,

Resigning, never rising:

Returning to the heavens.

But during daily drudge,

Our one winged angel,

Fumbles into his fate.

A fellow fallen fairy,

Feeling free, frisky, and whole,

Steeled by sadness,

Fortified in fun,

A whirl of a girl,

Caught the angel's hand,

And rushed him through the rain.

Side by side, the two gained speed,

Running madly and merrily,

Relinquishing rancid past.

In an instant,

Two wings become One,

And flightless angel,

Paired with his fallen fairy,

Takes flight again.

No end in sight,

No temporary flight,

Soaring; fly,

Keep us, Sky:

Two-winged Being.

Turn Up the Music

Day of the first,

Either best or worst,

Reset, start again,

Hoping the same goal to win:

Collections Department.

I'm supposed to be writing a paper to apply to two different institutions in an effort to begin studying for a PhD, but being the day that it is, I just couldn't bring myself to write coherently about social thought and political justice.  As some of you know, I work in a collections department now, and I have to be honest, when I first started this job, I had no idea how emotionally taxing it would be.  I mean yeah, everyone expects collections to be difficult, but you wouldn't believe how fast you become jaded and uncaring, or just how angry you can get over numbers you can't control.

For the second month in a row, I've missed a goal by literally one payment.  And the day after the deadline, that one payment comes through.  After listening to sob stories and lies day in and day out, the disappointment of a month seemingly wasted manifests itself in tirades against customers I speak to on the first.  The craziest thing is I ended up hitting my other goal - by a lot - allowing my team as a whole to hit their goal.  Ironically, if I hadn't tried as hard on that goal, I would have hit all of my goals this month.  That's the bizarre office space I live in, that I'm sure many thousands of people can relate to.

Leaving the office yesterday, I knew the odds of getting that goal were slim, so I turned up talk radio and tried not to think about it.  There is little other sign that you're getting older than listening to talk radio unnecessarily loud.  But finding out that you missed by one, and that you're going to have to drudge at the exact same thing, with the exact same lying customers for another month, hoping for a more favorable result...that's insanity inducing.  So much so that occasionally you have to be reminded that, perhaps, your customer actually does have cancer and can't pay today.

My manager asked us in an email what we're going to do differently this month to do better.  I wanted to sarcastically respond, "try less - maybe I'll hit goal then..." but as that would be unprofessional and earn me a reprimand, I'll just stick with something more mature.  I hope.

So here I am, pitching a little fit through poetry and verbiage.  Per usual.  I am reminded even more that, as good as this company is, it is not where my vision and calling is leading me.  So I plug in to my music, some of the angrier stuff, and turn it up.  For now, to me is not to fret about the future.  For now, to me is to listen to the lies, make it through the month, and help it along with some headbanging.  That seems to temporarily solve everything but the ensuing case of whiplash.