Year: 2010

When people say work, this is what comes to mind

by

What a typical working Thursday used to look like some years ago:

  1. Stay in bed until the last minute, because I barely had any the previous night.
  2. Get dressed for work in like 30-60s or something. Having shoes with nether laces nor Velcro helped.
  3. Cart 4-5 buckets of cleaning supplies across a drive way, up a staircase (maybe 15-18 steps, whatever it was, it was a stretched one), and half way down a hallway. Back then they were organised into palletised “Groups”, e.g. kitchen cleaning, bathroom clearing, etc; which her royal pain couldn’t stand but made it easier to deploy. So I had to be driven nutso over that.
  4. Clear the floors: piles inches deep of cloths, toys, food, dishes, papers, and dog faeces; much of it soaked in dog piss and often things were covered in the modern equivalent of gak. There was literally so much crap in every room, that stuff had to be scrapped off the rotting hard wood floors with an old trowel or something. I shit you not. 
  5. About three trash bags and countless dustpan-fulls later, the floors had to be swept.
  6. Make sure the cloths either made it into the washer, or got piled up for next week.
  7. Strip and change sheets for three beds
  8. Help dust every thing and wipe all the grime
  9. Prep the bathrooms for clearing; e.g. ditch the towels, bring in the supplies, shake the rugs, etc.
  10. Bleach and scrub two tubs and a shower; usually get cussed a blue streak over it. I don’t even want to know about some of the stains. Ventilation was like a bolted window or something; think the smaller room had a fan and an open door.
  11. Provide ‘backup’ with the mopping of the floors; usually by scrapping crap off the deck with my finger nails.
  12. Cart all the supplies downstairs and try not to trip over anything, *oy*.
  13. Sweep down the stairs.
  14. Start cleaning the living room an the den: see above points 4, 5, 6, 8, and 11.
  15. Be expected to leave 5+ Windows streak free that I’d rather throw myself out of.
  16. Cart all the supplies into the kitchen.
  17. Repeat above points 4 and 8 in the kitchen floors and counter tops using disinfectant. The once white counter tops were usually closer to bronze or burgundy esque colour; not even bleaching the freaking things could make much headway in getting them to *look* clean.
  18. Try to put away whatever pots/pans/dishes were still clean, while ma saw to the devastated ones.
  19. Help scrap out the Microwave, someone would always managed to nuke the MW instead of nuking the food.
  20. Clean and scrap out the oven.
  21. Scrub the walls all around the ground floor, while ma assaulted the stove top; interrupts being to get her other supplies /or help.
  22. Take a moments break to lean against a wall, while ma cleaned the wc next to the kitchen. While chewing me out over anything and everything.
  23. Cart the supplies back across the drive way and stuff them in the car. On a good day it might be windy, so there would be fresh air: and chasing after crap that flew away.
  24. Repeat point 11 for the kitchen and associated wc. If you tried eating off the floor at any point, I would suggest a Cyanide chaser.
  25. After six hours or so of that shit: go home or get dragged across a supermarket on the way.
  26. Fling every ounce of clothing into the wash and scrub…
  27. Grab something quick to eat and pour a drink; be thankful if my allergies settled down by then. Working out there blew through paper towels and sneezing attacks, like a hot knife through water.
  28. Try and catch a few hours of game time; be happy if not interrupted every 5-15 minutes.
  29. Hope to catch my favourite show, assuming we hadn’t had to work even further over time…
  30. Work on my studies; be happy if not interrupted every 5-15 minutes.
  31. Eat dinner; usually left overs or something quick.
  32. Eventually “Bed time”.
  33. Be glad that at long last, I’m no longer being cussed at all damn day long or treated like a pack mule.
  34. Actually get cracking on my studies, various projects, and, ahem, anything but a restful sleep…
  35. Finally tend to closing clandestine odds/ends, and pass out around 0500.
  36. Be thankful that Friday was a different job.
  37. Wish Sunday would inch by, so there would be something to do other than working on things.
My GOD, I can still see those filthy floors… the happiest day of my entire fucking life, was when they could no longer pay for the cleaning.
I swear, I have never danced like that in my entire life lol. Imagine finding 10k in gold under a rock, fuck yeah, it was that kind of joy at being let go. In my life, I’ve had to work three different weekly jobs like ‘that’ trip at the O’s place. One such job was working both a full and half day every week, but at least they didn’t have so many dogs like the O’s and the F’s did.  Some gigs were more tiring (especially the two-three years at the F’s place) but I don’t think any where was that bad on the grime. It was the kind of place you would feel like disinfecting your ass hole if you ever had to sit somewhere.
The jobs I get stuck doing now’re days, are a total breeze by comparison. For all the years I suffered through of Thursdays like that over the past 6-7 years, that when I wake up and don’t have to work on a Thurs’, you can bet that I’ve got a sigh of relief inside. Whenever I have to pass by that particular house on the way to somewhere else, the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
If you’ve ever thought your house was a mess, you ain’t seen jack shit until you’ve been in the real cleaning business.
by

When stuck using a dead monitor as a weight, I can’t help but wonder if a comparable barbell  or kettlebell would be as easy to lift off the deck, as a 21kg CRT lol.

A note on teaching what I know

by

When asked to teach someone something in RvS, I make it a personal policy not to use the [SAS] server or the NTF servers for doing it; I would consider it rude. Ofc, being able to host my own private server helps, lol. I can also always tell people no, hehe, a big change over being assigned to training details.

Now that I’ve spent plenty of years and several thousand hours at the tactics and techniques, I obviously know how to play the game. The part I like however, is since I am free of [SAS]—I don’t have to water down my techniques to that level of game play. I can just play like I want, and treat the clearing like I would if it was a real house. Damn, how many hours did I spend working on that stuff out of game… lol.

UrT, the urbanised terror

by

There’s just something about leading the score board and having many successful 1 on 2 / 1 on 3 engagements of late, that makes me conclude that Urban Terror just isn’t hard enough…

Where’s the challenge???

SIGH!

by

In addition to the proverbial corn cob up my ass, I’ve finally managed to push my own button! Decided to shave for the first time in I’ve lost track how long, started wondering whether or not there’s still a human underneath it all. And then I cut my throat lol. Over the years I’ve become quite adapt at shaving with a very bad mood, and never leaving a scratch; which makes this all the more infuriating. Couple paper towels and a bit of red stuff later, it’s settled down.

and now I am officially pissed.

A reflection upon mindlessness

by

I gave up my activity, let the world slip away, and took up the call. To work, to slave, to toil. I learned that *work* means when you haven’t eaten all day, when you’d rather have condoms on your shoes then have to leave such a filthy place spotless, and you know you’re almost done when you started feeling like passing out cold over three hours ago, and you’re done when you wouldn’t care if it was a landfill, because you would still collapse face first. That was the better part of helping in this business. 

This is literal, in fact if you’ve ever heard my description of the worst cleaning job I’ve ever had to live with, you know that I’ve seen much worse then the above describes lolololol. That reminds me of sth a friend once said that made me laugh, but I won’t repeat it to others.

Enough so much so that I know it, that the jobs we’ve had over the last couple years, are such a trivial breeze: it’s trivial cleaning compared to what’s already gone in the past.

This is also quite literal, compared to what it was, work has been a lot less terrible since about mid-2008. I like not coming home feeling like I was dragged a few miles.

Even at home, I’ve been treated no better then a slave, more is taken from my hide than is ever expected. Have I ever done anything, expecting a return? Maybe making a sandwich and planning to eat it too, but that’s about it.

I do things for people because I care, not because I expect them to do something in return.

What am I, am I not human? Do I not breath, tire,stab me, and shall I not [eventually] die? It’s inhuman. I am always expected to be of the machine, never of the flesh. Is it not where the difference lay?

Spend enough of your life being treated like something less than a human being, and you’ll understand it fully.

What does it mean to care, what does it mean to me? It means everything. I’m drowning.

Which is also something that separates us from the machines.

Before me, I see the question, but know not the answer. Oh, how many sleepless nights have we argued that? It seems as if, since the beginning of time. 

Only a handful of people on earth knows what this is, and it has nothing to do with my family: other than they often make it all the more sensitive a feeling for me. Being a private thing, I’ll leave it at that for an explanation, for as far as this journal is concerned.

Nothing else have I ever feared, more than that question. Nothing. My insides are rent by it.  Anything else, any danger, any pain, pales in comparison; risk of death or dismemberment, falls off the list.

The answer to that above question is the only thing in this world that scares the shit out of me. I’ve yet to find anything else that does, but I’ve also yet to discover an answer to the question.

What is the answer, will I ever know it? Or must I merely make one for myself, carve it out of my own bone and let it follow me down to sheol / That is where the future lay, somewhere well beyond the crest of the hilltops and beyond the moons gaze.

The alternative to finding an answer: being to to create one, which is as painful an issue as if to carve it out of ones own hide. Sheol is not an English word, it’s of Hebrew origin: those familiar with the Old Testament will likely comprehend it. Normally (in the NIV) it is translated as the grave, but carries an association with the after life. I use in a manor in between.

Fool ensnared, entrapped dolt! There is no way out but by the beat of the drums.  

Battle….

In the side of my mind, I sense it repeating endlessly without ceasitation.

Both the question and being aware, that the only way out of this place is by brute force.

The roman, the arrow, the wing, the snake, or the jello, one of thine shall surely be my fate.

I’ve found 5 possible courses of action, only one person at the most, has seen that list, and only because I was about ready to bust at my seems. Being easier for my mind to refer to collections of words by names, rather than hearing paragraphs sounding in my head, obviously each has a name, that carries it’s meaning to me. GOD knows, I’ve read it enough to recite the choices from memory.
by

DRAFT 0.3

If early, eat a light snack // usually ~ 0130-0230
 -> establish base line menu // inventory on the deploy
    +carbs, +proteins, -fats

NLT 0400-0500 -> init block

 Assault stretch
 // dog gets locked out of the room and door barricaded if necessary
 rotational choice:
  enhanced press ups // mine were designed for hell!
hindu push ups
  reverse crunches
  crunches
  reverse lunges
  lunges
  pistol squats
  hindu squats
  military presses
  modified deadlift // heaviest weight avail is to bulky

 first rotation: 1 minute each of 3 exercises
 2 minute intermission
 second rotation: 1 minute each of 3 exercises
 shave / brush teeth / etc

0700 -> first foot block
 running time
 + option of extending

Post -> meal 0
 proper breakfast // likely self prepaired

1000-1130 -> second foot block
 At least an hours driving OR prolonged foot travel
  -> begin with 1 hour block for pacing speed
     progress to water driven limitations; e.g.
     RTB is timed in sync to water utilisation.

Post -> meal 1
 lunch and extra water

// TBD: what the fuck to do in the afternoons...

A decent into mindlessness

by

It burns me inside, scorches my insides.

I gave up my activity, let the world slip away, and took up the call. To work, to slave, to toil. I learned that *work* means when you haven’t eaten all day, when you’d rather have condoms on your shoes then have to leave such a filthy place spotless, and you know you’re almost done when you started feeling like passing out cold over three hours ago, and you’re done when you wouldn’t care if it was a landfill, because you would still collapse face first. That was the better part of helping in this business. Enough so much so that I know it, that the jobs we’ve had over the last couple years, are such a trivial breeze: it’s trivial cleaning compared to what’s already gone in the past.

Even at home, I’ve been treated no better then a slave, more is taken from my hide than is ever expected. Have I ever done anything, expecting a return? Maybe making a sandwich and planning to eat it too, but that’s about it.

What am I, am I not human? Do I not breath, tire,stab me, and shall I not [eventually] die? It’s inhuman. I am always expected to be of the machine, never of the flesh. Is it not where the difference lay?

What does it mean to care, what does it mean to me? It means everything. I’m drowning.

Before me, I see the question, but know not the answer. Oh, how many sleepless nights have we argued that? It seems as if, since the beginning of time. Nothing else have I ever feared, more than that question. Nothing. My insides are rent by it.  Anything else, any danger, any pain, pales in comparison; risk of death or dismemberment, falls off the list.

What is the answer, will I ever know it? Or must I merely make one for myself, carve it out of my own bone and let it follow me down to sheol / That is where the future lay, somewhere well beyond the crest of the hilltops and beyond the moons gaze.

Fool ensnared, entrapped dolt! There is no way out but by the beat of the drums.  In the side of my mind, I sense it repeating endlessly without ceasitation.

The roman, the arrow, the wing, the snake, or the jello, one of thine shall surely be my fate.

As my faculties slowly find again some structure, I think it probably best, if I note the above can not be parsed by normal human. Much is rife with multiple concurrent meanings,  English ambiguity will never constrain them such, that much can be known of its [words] significance, without knowing also the many shades it may come from. Few if any know part of those, and none know them all, save that beyond the grave where all my secrets lay.

or in short, whether you think you understand anything written, you probably don’t. I’ve always said my text reflects my brains structure, so much more so… when I’m in such a state of thought. No living soul can likely comprehend it correctly.

by

Nothing like tripping and nearly flying across the room, to slip start your day.
Would probably have been better to hit the wall…

by

I think I did enough thinking & pacing while waiting for ma to finish her sector, that I could’ve walked home from work and actually had lunch. Her business is ironic, I have to be done promptly or there’s hell to pay, she just takes her sweet time.

There’s no end to it, the concious stream of thought.  Even in my sleep, I can see the same trains of thought rolling on. For some reason a Johhny Cash song just popped into a side thought.

I’ve done everything I can, to try and get more driving hours. I don’t ask for much, barely the air in my lungs, but when I do ask for something… it’s because I need help. Compare this to my mother who will walk into my room and ask for sth to be brought out to here from the kitchen, when the freaking kitchen is on the other side of the hallway!

It feels like to be on the other side of plate glass.

To die: to sleep; no more; and by a sleep to say we end; the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks; that flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation; devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep; to sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub; for in that sleep of death what dreams may come; when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause: there’s the respect; that makes calamity of so long life

Remind me never to read Hamlet again…