April 10, 2006
Contact!
Do you have a dime for every one that you can remember as a contact? I don’t but the closer I come to… to “the end of the day”, (every day) the more I mull over the matter that I don’t, but should have that prolific a list of ‘em. Why? Quite simply, mine freund, ze answer ist blovink in ze vind. CEO’s, VP’s, HR managers, direct soops, rejoice. Your miracle employee, your super modest woe-slayer is on the scene bro.
A prolific contact list alone doth not a grounded mareer coove make, does it now. Flit, float, fly, flam, flim, FLEM! The wasta that you want, you can’t quite get. Not for wont but want.
Lie back, let the cold winter waves wash up on ya and think of all the lovely trophy girls you’ve had in mind while posing at being loved ‘afore:
Marylyn, Loni, Crystal, Misty, Debbie, Sharon, Trisha, Tanya, Tawny, Tammy and who can forget the twins; ahde Begu & Eva Walkawalka– we had some good times, but would I call them contacts now?
See what I mean? The idea that momentary interactions necessarily induce a long-term suitability in terms of future contact cannot be relied apon as the norm. It would seem that we are left to chance, the luck of the draw. Chaos rules. There is no centring force no more. We are the hammer that’s been thrown.
We are the ones that have been released from the centrifugal force’s predictable circuit. We are the ones with which the hammer’s landing place must contend. Far flung and seemingly free to fly but in a trajectory determined.
There’s one thing left for us as flung hammers left to do to change our trajectory is to break apart in the air. That would affect our flight. That would change outcomes desired. There’s also outside influences to be relied upon here.
For example, suppose a child in the wings innocently tosses a large pebble into the air in what happens to be the direct path of the flung hammer that is us. We cannot but be knocked off our hoped for trajectory yes? It is the choice of the boy to toss the pebble at that time. It is the force of something greater than the hammer thrower, the hammer, the boy, the air we freely fly through now, even the eventual hammer landing place, that causes that arching, sacrificial pebble to hit the us that is the flung(ged) hammer. What are we to call that force that we cannot but feel the effects of? If it be called chance than by all means, hit me with the forces of chance again and again please and watch the flung me change happily my direction, once, twice, the thousandth time, I don’t mind a change in direction. I am a flung hammer, flying. Adventurer, I, would THIS, ruther than the oft-repeated, dull, predictable, precise, and predetermined flinging out of orbit, by a centrifugal force that’s with shouting, let go of the line that held this hammer, as yet unflung, and orbiting still, suddenly, attempting records.
Okay, FLINGER. You de' one left standing on the ground, ninkompoop. And I fly. What's new?
What’s next?
A prolific contact list alone doth not a grounded mareer coove make, does it now. Flit, float, fly, flam, flim, FLEM! The wasta that you want, you can’t quite get. Not for wont but want.
Lie back, let the cold winter waves wash up on ya and think of all the lovely trophy girls you’ve had in mind while posing at being loved ‘afore:
Marylyn, Loni, Crystal, Misty, Debbie, Sharon, Trisha, Tanya, Tawny, Tammy and who can forget the twins; ahde Begu & Eva Walkawalka– we had some good times, but would I call them contacts now?
See what I mean? The idea that momentary interactions necessarily induce a long-term suitability in terms of future contact cannot be relied apon as the norm. It would seem that we are left to chance, the luck of the draw. Chaos rules. There is no centring force no more. We are the hammer that’s been thrown.
We are the ones that have been released from the centrifugal force’s predictable circuit. We are the ones with which the hammer’s landing place must contend. Far flung and seemingly free to fly but in a trajectory determined.
There’s one thing left for us as flung hammers left to do to change our trajectory is to break apart in the air. That would affect our flight. That would change outcomes desired. There’s also outside influences to be relied upon here.
For example, suppose a child in the wings innocently tosses a large pebble into the air in what happens to be the direct path of the flung hammer that is us. We cannot but be knocked off our hoped for trajectory yes? It is the choice of the boy to toss the pebble at that time. It is the force of something greater than the hammer thrower, the hammer, the boy, the air we freely fly through now, even the eventual hammer landing place, that causes that arching, sacrificial pebble to hit the us that is the flung(ged) hammer. What are we to call that force that we cannot but feel the effects of? If it be called chance than by all means, hit me with the forces of chance again and again please and watch the flung me change happily my direction, once, twice, the thousandth time, I don’t mind a change in direction. I am a flung hammer, flying. Adventurer, I, would THIS, ruther than the oft-repeated, dull, predictable, precise, and predetermined flinging out of orbit, by a centrifugal force that’s with shouting, let go of the line that held this hammer, as yet unflung, and orbiting still, suddenly, attempting records.
Okay, FLINGER. You de' one left standing on the ground, ninkompoop. And I fly. What's new?
What’s next?
