Things Unsaid

Confusion is part of life.
A necessity of sorts.
Without confusion, there’d be chaos.

Not the kind of Utopian chaos promised by the Dil Pickle Club.
Chaos by paralysis.
Order without confusion.


Confusion is the ultimate camouflage.

Understanding this, at least once you’ve partially convinced yourself of such, you might ask “how is it that anything gets done at Misfit Psycles“?

Until this spring I simply DID it.
Whatever it was.  Whatever it wasn’t.
Whatever it was intended to be.  Whatever it became once it was finished.
For the most part, life, was easy.  Predictability through improbability.

In the end, whatever it was, was CORRECT (in the context of specific intent) or otherwise sold as ‘intentionally like that’.

Enter Thomas Wood.
Thomas and I went back and forth for some time before he officially started.
I never doubted HIS qualifications.

I merely MORE fully understood mine own powers.
Powers that beguile and confound better men.  Powers that include clairvoyance, psychosis and omnipotence (latin for self-important).

While preparing some frames (for delivery) I ran into a few issues with a few too many frames.
I became emotional.

Not specifically about the issue I was having.
That, specifically, would be handled.  I knew that.  I hated knowing that.

I found that quasi-instant resolution (of the issue) infuriating.
I was robbed of process.  A process that included outrage and ire.

I was going to need to find something else.
Something I could be pissed about.
Something with NO immediate resolution.

Fucking eyelet’s.
Fucking Thomas.

For those that might (rightfully) doubt his powers of deflection, here, is Thomas’ response:

Text book.  Composed.  Perfect.
And total bullshit in it’s accuracy.

I had a boss once who, despite his paranormal powers of veto and a propensity to review everydamnthing personally, used to scream at the top of his lungs “if you’re saying this is my fault, what the fuck do I need you for“.
The fact that the words spewed forth in a shower of nicotine flavoured cholesterol didn’t change a thing, the answer was obvious.

I was there because he was a fucking idiot.

Eyelet’s = Waterloo.

In politics… never retreat, never retract… never admit a mistake.
Napoleon Bonaparte.

The fix was in.  I had my confrontation.  I had disorder.
I had an outlet in an eyelet.

Thomas had shown weakness to similar confrontations in the past.
I expected a response (telephone/email) requesting clarification of mine hostility.
Or resignation.
Literally or figuratively.

I received my response.

The note is four fucking years old, in blue ink (complete with a drop shadow) from a doctor in California.

This effort brought a tear to my eye.

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