The Point

In which I go hunting

Pencil sketch of a cat with large amber eyes.

It used to reside in open plan offices that smelled faintly of yesterday’s soup. It used to curl up on keyboards and yawn at powerpoint presentations that were doomed to be made-viewed-discarded-made-viewed-discarded. And, once a month, it used to slink onto my bank statement and preen. 

The Point didn’t enjoy its unexpected uprooting. It disappeared for long months, presumably butting its head against the closed glass of sliding doors that no longer allowed entrance. It must have spent hours beneath familiar windows, now closed just too far to admit it. I’d hear grumbling yowls in the night, as it yearned for what was and bemoaned what is. 

And then one day, it finally wended its way back to me, with ears chewed until scalloped and with pale moons of bare skin along its flank, an inverse leopard. We started out slow: careful sniffs at a paint palette and a cautious paw batting a runaway sponge. Staring matches with spider plants, pressing close to a warm oven door, curling into loving arms. 

The Point and I, we’re figuring it out.

On the horse

In which I do something useful

It’s been a while since we got to do this, you and me. 

We’re clanking into gear, picking up speed, finding those tracks we’d neglected and re-railing. 

There’s a beautiful flow when we get going. Clacking puzzle tiles that constantly shuffle and reshuffle as more information gets added, or new ideas nudge their way out of the bag and click onto the board.

There’s a game of hot potato afoot, email ping pong, a chance to make a tiny piece of the world as I wish it were. And this absolute focus and the desire to shrivel apathy into a puff of long-forgotten ash. 

I’ve missed this.

The moment

In which we visit the office (III)

Written on a particularly cheery day at a desk…


There comes a Moment,

Hurtling out of the morass of meaningless days.

Ululating its discontent, the Moment snaps at heels,

Ripping at sinews and seams until the morass

Stills. There, entwined in the purr of the Moment, it

Dawns on you that the sludge of your life is slithering away,

Another day. Another

Year. Gone.

Hydra

In which we visit the office (II)

Written for a particularly exasperating shared drive.

Fortunately, my sense of self-preservation

Rode to the rescue before I slaughtered the

Imbeciles who birthed this hydra.

Data spawns from myriad folders, incomplete,

Atrophied, unnamed. I know not, as

Yet, if my self-preservation will remain horsed.

Spindle-fingers

In which we visit the office

The spirit lives in the confidential waste bin.

Huddled in paper blankets of names and addresses, he

Unabashedly trills as he dances over keyboards and

Runs spindle-fingers over files.

“Save your work!” comes the cry, a

Desperate click comes

A second too late.

You watch his backside drift away, snigg-wiggling.