Forbidden colours

I`ll go walking in circles
While doubting the very ground beneath me
Trying to show unquestioning faith in everything
(Sylvian/Sakamoto)

Like a temple-bodied muesli-gargling flexible workplace vegista I occasionally dream of gorging myself on the cherry-pied custard-fest of a private offfice, in full view of the self-loathing waiting to suffocate me as I surrender.

Because sometimes we suffer the Karamnzovian pangs of imaginary indulgence in the things we have railed against for so long, a shard of doubt piercing our belief. It’s part of reinforcing our conviction. Most of the time we don’t talk about it, even to ourselves.

So I’m going to share it with the group, in a fit of therapy.

A private office the subject of my musing, an imaginary place where…..

….all my stuff is always (in the absolute) exactly where I left it and where I know it’s always going to be, rather than piled on a window ledge because I was dragged through unexpected meetings to a desultory dusk.

….there are no fragments of a baguette foretold in the keyboard, no interpretable clues to a mis-spent snack in the “vacant vee” on the chair, no peruvian marmalade on the mouse.

….I can hang my coat on a hanger on the back of the door and not have to ram it Tokyo-metro-like into the wardrobe next to the damp coat just returned from all-night fishing with its oblivious owner and their wet dog.

….if you are going to interrupt me I can see you coming, and thanks to the air of crisply folded calm I can hear you crunching through the problems you are about to shovel onto my desk before you appear in the doorway, and be ready

….the design of the furniture and finishes are a frozen heartbeat, the outpouring of passion for physical form, rather than a production necessity.

….my computer works when I switch it on, rather than after I have changed desks three times because various essential peripheral limbs have been medievally lopped off the unfortunate docking stations and the monitor has not been mauled by a Bengal tiger

….my circadian rhythms play out to an ambient calm, like listening to Robin Guthrie while the sun sets over Siena, rather than to a 3am drug-fuelled free jazz/Test Department collaboration kerbside at the Target Roundabout.

….the window provides a contemplative vista, a sculpting cushion for the eyes and a reflective pool, rather than a tormenting temptation, a sealed hatch, two whole gesturing fingers.

Here am I, a lifetime away from you.

Now, please: make amazing shared spaces. Make the demons go away.

 

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