Tristain Tzara in the 1930's wrote that he lived life at that point where, rocking backwards in a chair, you suddenly lose balance and realise that you are poised on a razor edge of falling either one way or the next. This, I feel, is a load of dingo kidneys.
At least for me, that is. For all I know Tzara was a complete and utter fruitcake and did indeed feel like he was constantly falling off exceptionally tall things onto exceedingly pointy things. For all I know he was also a highly evolved bicycle. For my bit, however, I know how things are. Most times. And I most especially know how things are today.
Today for some bloody reason I've felt like I've gone utterly Off The Deep End. And it's not a pleasant, surreal sort of feeling, either. It's more that feeling that you get when you realise that the soft, warm sensation between your bare toes is not the first sensations of stepping into a hot therapeutic mudbath but is in point of fact the first sensations of stepping in a rather vile, worm-ridden, half-digested Wal-Mart-dog-food generated colon gift that the neighbor's Rotweiller has left on your front porch step. Which you are about to slip on. And for a very brief moment, you will feel just like Tristain Tzara feels like all the janking time.
It's been one of those days, you see, where I seem to have made a misstep somewhere on the escalator of my day and I'm still trying to regain the stability of the mezzazine, there perhaps to purchase a new fedora and a hot Chai. I don't know exactly where it all went wrong, as days like today often go. Instead, I suddenly realised about an hour ago all the work I had done up to that point was either wrong, missing vital bits, or was somehow routed through to a CIA computer and is even now being puzzled over in the Intelligence Director's office in a secret military prison deep beneath the frozen tundra of the Aleutian Islands. And our server is telling us that we can only do things this morning like surf the Internet or work on email, but the server that handles all the work-related things like payroll, data entry and any sort of productive work is currently refusing to talk to anyone and is in a corner of the server room in Baton Rouge sucking it's CAT5 cable and babbling quietly to itself.
So, with all that listed out and a brief walk in the mid-70's temperature outside, I have decided that I shall be removing myself from this existance and taking up residence in the body of a slightly odiferous and extremely cantankerous vole currently residing under the concrete steps which lead up to a disused grain silo in the middle of East Armpit, Nebraska, there to spend my time praying that the rats of NIMH will soon come and devour me whole.
Either that or I'm going to, Quixotically, take another joust at the windmill that is our server and try to enter some physician's orders.