18 December 2010

0 a minor incident


there's a palpable rage here, dananator says, looking at me squarely. we're in the naked lady bar and i'm watching her twirl a straw through her tanqueray and tonic. i think you are very angry at the girl you used to be.

this is what i intend to write about when i am looking through the scans of The Poems. this is why i open the file and click on it twice again when it does not initially pop up.

bear in mind, we're not talking about the file with the comparatively benign first set of The Poems but the one with the incendiary second set. the ones from when egg and i purposefully delved back in to find pieces with more fucking and screwing and swirling and horror.

i read these poems and i wonder briefly why i am angry at the girl i used to be before deciding that i cannot write about this now. for now, i will be a diligent worker.

it comes as a bit of a surprise when, a solid 45 minutes later, my diligency is interrupted by the manager of the accounting department, who hands me a sheaf of papers, on the top sheet of which the words fucking, screw, shit, bitch and naked seem to leap from the page like daggers into my eyes.

caroline, these must be yours, she says.

the problem with having a heightened appreciation of the absurd is that one is able to find an amusing element in anything-- even in one's own tragedies. because, while i know that this public unveiling of The Poems to the office blabbermouth is, in the long-term, a pretty horrid thing, it also strikes me, even in that very moment as it is unfolding, as quite possibly the funniest thing ever to have happened in the history of man.

in a cirumstance that at best guarantees me two months of knowing smiles and, at worst, means, in the words of lindear, that the whole office is going to think i was once molested, the manager of the accounting department has shared The Poems with the manager of HR in the mistaken belief that they were a festive holiday joke. subsequently, remembering that i was an english major, she concluded they must be mine.

the manager of the accounting department thinks i could make a lot of money with The Poems. people love to read stuff like that, she says.

that she says that is not the most frightening part of this conversation. nor is the fact that she compares The Poems to "pulitzer-prize winning literature like the da vinci code."

the truly dreadful element is that there appears to be no sense of surprise whatsoever surrounding the fact that i have written and printed poetry this bad. it is as though it makes perfect sense for me to be doing such things at work. it is as though maybe, perish the thought, that is who they think i am.

and yet, confronted with The Poems, i do not disown them. maybe i am angry at the girl i used to be, but nonetheless when the manager of the accounting department asks, are these yours? i look her in the eye and say, yes. yes, those Poems belong to me.

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