Zulu Dawn (extract from upcoming book) allegorical tales
“What beseeches you to bargain on thatllogo which is already yours.” — ‘Book of Truths’ ~1999
A veteran masker of many a truth, purveyor of untold judgements, personal or otherwise. I eventually succumbed to the need of not having to know, favouring to instead engage in the intricate interplay of each moment, observing rather than forcing, listening as opposed to redirecting. As I wondered wondrously in the oblivion of surrender, mesmerically led by the unbroken line of possibilities, I became privy to the multifaceted, delicate interplay between obstacle and opportunity, where the remarkable derivates out of the permutations of discernment. It is when the listening happens that the impossible chooses to unfold; where the unabated leads to the splendour.
But alas, it is so often within the apathy of the mundane where one is relegated to the slog. Where the Grommet cumbersomely don themselves in the oblique fealty of blind servitude, selling the best of themselves by aligning with the worst of those who rinse and repeat the failings of others past. Choosing rather to slot into the ravine of consensus and validation from peers and ‘Tin man’ leaders. But hey, I rant [again] — ‘ain’t no stopping me.’ [BTW]
As I was [kinda] saying before I interrupted myself. In an elongated era of empirical deduction, I contort in the clad of the emperor’s translucent wardrobe. A sad, familiar ordinariness permeating the boundaries of social media, interviews, presentations, websites and outsourced (as well as) outdated corporate posts and blogs. And my, how the time-honoured ‘yardstick’ has been preposterously recalibrated to the systematic drudge of Gantt logic. Where fragile reputations are often nonchalantly gambled on methodologies imbued with male gender ‘Zulu Dawn’ logic; transactional and contingent on ‘thirteenth check’ benevolence, ‘Pied Piper’ing’ lab rats to exhaustion in unrepeatable feats of reckless bravery. The notional nirvana of transformational inclusion is just where it is — notionally abstract — solely for the privy of press and publication; incorporeal as the azimuth between ocean and sky. And before anyone disagrees, I’m ok with that! A bit like milk and meat, you either partake, or you don’t!
I had only too often loathed trudging through the swaths of personal resumes framed resplendently in word counted verse, font, and design, capturing, enticing, schmoozing, all to honour the ghosts of Christmas past — an obsession with what was when what can be is what is! The bane of pitching to those who cannot see, gatekeepers who cannot know but who blindly press the knowers. A low grade annoyance of having to sell what we have been rather than extolling the virtues of who we are going to be. This is a reality, of course! For the most part, at least. The echo chamber of vanity reflecting who we wish to be seen as so that who we are is hidden in plain sight.
“Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.”
― André Malraux
