by
lyndlj
@ 2006-09-26 - 21:44:31
At a quarter to nine this morning I am working away composing a letter to a client when Phil, you remember Phil the IT guy, comes up to me and says can you log off I need to move your computer. What!!! Yes you are moving, ok, so I am moving desks,again,why do you need to move my computer?
"erm you are movin rooms this time,again, your going next door"
" Your joking,right?"
" Err no, dont give me that look, I just do as I am told" he says backing off.
So I went to the higher echelons,who apologised and said that they meant to tell me yesterday, but sort of got sidetracked, like we didnt have an hour long meeting during which I could have been informed!
So moved again,the girls I sit with were none too pleased, but such is life.
Apart from that it was a 'normal' day.
Listening to soothing music right now, feeling the need to write, but what hasn't materialised yet, more of my story ( which one though?) poetry? guess I will know soon enough when the words take shape and begin to form whatever it is they are wanting to form.
I love writing, letting the words flow, watching as they begin to take shape and fashion themselves into something creative, even if they dont make sense to anyone but me. I never was a painter like the rest of the family, my older brother he could draw anything,sketch, draw from memory, and do cartoons, really good ones. The male parent thought he could paint,and he did the odd painting that was ok, mostly his stuff was paint by numbers though he had us believing he had done them from scratch till I found him out.
Grandad was a painter, his paintings were magical, awesome, you could almost step into them they were that realistic, the people looked alive, you could feel the sun and hear the wind that he painted. Sadly he didnt believe in his own talent, he didnt believe that his breathtaking scenic pictures would interest anyone, and grandma fed that low esteem by telling him they were rubbish,and constantly belittling him for ' wasting' his time. He destroyed everything he painted, except the picture of me and Rex, and in the end he destroyed that too, but it was her that destroyed it really.
Such a wonderful man, such a lonely soul.