Expectations

Oh yes, yes yes, I had forgotten about that one, it was instrumental, how could it have slipped, suppose things aren't as clear as they used to be, world's worlding, families growing, what have you. Certainly, that was one of the foundational documents; it was somewhat notorious and didn't immediately increase our revenue (with any significant sources) but indicated a creative characteristic that was, well, playful. Kenneth didn't really know what he was doing so he wrote a pretentious piece designed to make fun of pretension. He was trying to write literary comedic philosophy using some line from a song he liked as the discursively cohesive unifier. It didn't go over generally well but produced an audience for a short period that were briefly distracted as a result. Yes, yes, long time ago, that was, in the early days, golly. He never performed it although he almost did once.

*To please the court, we've attached a postscript below entitled Objective Subjectivity to indicate a solution.

Subjective Objectivity

The collection was an issue. It was at stake. The collection was an issue that was at stake and I’d been driven out of the circle. For loitering. To square. They don’t seem to like it when you just kind of, hang about, searching, doing nothing in particular, something that will make sense, to you, some day, in some circumstance, maybe circumstances, when you encounter the right person, in the right situation, and it lights up.

I was for continuing the development of the current state of the collection inasmuch as it had developed a fluctuating history, a flexible format, an unpredictable expectation. I wasn’t too concerned with expectations themselves, finding them too often to be the breeding grounds for acritical motivations. But they were a necessary refinement amongst our clientele inasmuch as we needed to foster a routine, a repository, a remittance.

Between points. Between them and us, us and them, forgotten details, again again.

Between features. Between light. Between quaint misfortunes, good sir, good night.

“And good morning,” those with expectations would consistently state. Me, in my managerial context, they, in their formation quest, their formation moments, their formation hunger. They weren’t interested in the stakes medium rarely, or roasting a five month old goat, screaming for vegetables, simmering in companionship, wondering what in the hell led to this transition.

Of clarity. I had experienced a clear transition in relation to a formation development concerning the nature of our collection and felt that its guidance required placement within our organization’s unity, our fascination with the obscure. Obscured by Clouds was far from it, more of an Atom Heart Mother, bleeding with disgruntled euphonic resiliency. They were interested in access to their predetermined conceptions of collection rights and collection wrongs but were completely unskilled in the art of variable expediency. Hence, even though it was my duty to maintain their collection in response to my conception of their expectations, it was also their duty to at least prematurely permit me the pleasure of developing their collection in a manner that nurtured a degree of flexibility, wrought with challenge, with insight, excitement.

Collections required excitement within their designs as well as their designers if they were ever to aspire to anything sumptuous. Hence, I required that in the exposition of my duties I would adhere to a fluctuating format which would find sustenance in the belief that if a culture was forged with associated cultural expectations, then at least my adherence to a sensation would have found a direct incarnation. In various forms. In various delights. In the nighttime, rewind, entwine, combined.

With a purpose. With guidance. Guidance was important in the development of our collection and my guides had proven to be most ingenious in the application of their duty. Collecting and anticipating exceptions alone, on a merry-go-round, going round and round, hush hushing, falling straight, falling down. My policies had brought me back up inasmuch as they corresponded closely enough to what my superiors were looking for while at the same time straying seductively through their necessary trials of entitlement.

I was entitled to something of which I am still not quite certain; however, my uncertainty has done little to curtail my desire, my certitude, my right. I’m generally correct so some kind of reward designed to praise me for my brilliance was definitely in line with my particular variety of ontology, epistemologically speaking. I knew I was right at the time, playing the piano and what not, but unfortunately had not received the unpredictable recognition I required.

It’s a complicated science, predicting the right way to lead, to be, to instruct. There are so many divergent parallels parapartaking in an attempt to teach that it is peculiarly overwhelming when one takes a minute to think about it, the room being lit and what have you. My headlamp was set to stun so while developing my collection I ran a tight ship in order to remain ahead, to be vibrant, to be, well, stunning in the exposition of my daily tasks, my daily chores, my unfettered responsibilities.

Unfettering such devices required a consistent degree of clever artifice designed to keep my bosses thinking that I was thinking about doing what they suggested, while always coming up with a neat spin in the interests of twisting their tutelage into my own personal construction. I had worked construction for years so it was like second nature. I consistently came up with relevant plans, pertinent enjoyments, consequent pleasures, commensurate deployments.

Of culture. Our business was definitely cultured thanks to me and it was up to me to ensure that it prolonged its culturability. Culturability is one of the things that I do best, hence, my fascination with expectations. The expectations of a culture provide one with insights into their communal individuals, beaming pulsating riveting glimpses of a pervasively latent tradition, the value of which I was inadvertently qualifying with amnesty, an imperial blessing influencing its observers with peace and forgiveness. A clean slate, an assiduous transmission, a fresh dive in a pristinely freezing body of water, vigilantly leaning on the threshold.

The alternative’s simply too complicated (and vicious), concentrating on the maddening domain of revenge, the convoluted components of reason. Reason’s a rationally complicated business, trading points of concern between cultures in the interests of establishing a literary market the likes of which are bound to find their way into our strategic plan, with or without their associated expectations. I generally prefer the without option, the with resonating with cultural bloodshed, the bloodsplattered bride, sacrificing one’s artistic ingenuity for a resplendent congruity. Expectations must perform a congruous function if they’re to limit the domain of their application, and, regardless of what my superior’s claimed to represent, it was these expectations that submersed my audacity.

They would relate: “well done Kenneth, well done,” another pack of cigarettes would not have altered a participle of your collection’s wit, its concrete nucleus, its intrepid motion.

(I had quit smoking for years before these collection issues presented themselves. It was a nice break. I learned to engage in other activities, occasionally wore deodorant, and liberally applied thyme, oregano, paprika. Shaking this, shaking that, fell in a trance, a rake, a cat).

Came screeching through the lounge one day out from the roof. Apparently it had been feasting upon the resident mice, according to the Veterinarian, for at least 7 to 9 months, until it encountered a raccoon and was relieved of its residence. Mrs. Thomas was right pissed when it dropped onto her desk and swatted at her Hello Kitty mug (which had just been filled with Peppermint Hot Cocoa). I unfortunately laughed. Mrs. Thomas didn’t find it quite so funny and I had to subtly introduce her to a number of delicious peanut butter cookies over the next four months to subdue her mighty wrath. The wrath wasn’t the problem, it was the expectation built into the wrath that bothered me. How was I to cultivate even a medium amount of unpredictability if I consistently had to be confronted with wrath each and every afternoon? Hence, in the interests of remaining resoundingly fickle, I challenged her fury with humility, thereby ensuring that the form of my behaviour matched the content of my collection. Naturally, as soon as the event had been soothed over, I was comfortably free to revel in my recalcitrance, a decremented cavalier, waning, weakened, wreaking.

Buzzing. Buzz Buzz. Buzz Buzz. Stinging. If you were to sting you had to be stung and I was cringing all over. My collection. The development of my collection. It was proceeding. Reeling. Feeling. Congealing. Specifically. I required specifics to incorporate into my projection to ensure its malleability, but such specifics remained a mystery. Which I was constantly trying to solve in the manner of a spiraling stairwell, winding, twirling, pirouetting.

For a moment. A moment rewound. If you were able to incorporate a moment into your collection that was capable of remaining a moment for that moment’s sake, a particular combination of texts, audio visuals, paintings, and your patrons were satisfied with the fact that that particular combination of objects possessed a substantial presence that would only resonate for a brief period of monumental resiliency, then, in the interests of memory, of community, of friendship, we would have accomplished a cultural curtailment, a cultural curtailment of the mundane, an innovative break with reality the pleasant illuminations of which could only and only result in the reconstitution of that reality’s traditions, which would have to resurface in the bewildering aftermath. Building a surface, a plan, a requirement, an adjustment.

I had adjusted to the fact that I was smoking again as something new and fun. Every lit match reminded me of time past, learning how to hold a cigarette effectively in my mouth, walk, talk. Striking a match, gorging; starting to smoke again was the best thing to happen to the development of my collection since they began showing reruns of The Prisoner, No. 6’s resolve reflecting my determination regarding expectations. Hence, smoking enabled professional attempts to develop an aesthetic institutionally in regards to resonating resources, quiescently claiming the odd stentorian triumph depending upon my clients’ pursuits.

Which enabled me to gingerly continue working. In many ways or to a certain extent, they were my pantheon, I, I, responsible for refracting their divinity, for saluting their resplendence, with a phantasmagorical menu, proceeding onwards through and through.

Their culture. Their predicted commissions, in advance, so they had to do nothing besides not complaining, or at least complaining with style, charisma, art. The art of complaining requires one to engage the act in a compelling manner, one which, correspondingly, cannot be anticipated, thereby eliminating problematic points and engendering endearing enzymes.

We were all about engendering endearing enzymes meaning that if our patrons were to engage in parallel activities, we could not help but respond supplely. We were courageously supple insofar as such activities could result in expectations if not percolated within a Machiavellian rigamarole. Therefore, we could supplely respond to artistic complaints in a manner which bent slightly but reasoned lightly, to ensure that we could at least begin to place their future remarks within a formula, a formula designed to manufacture future remarks minimally, so that we would be able to predict their complaints to a certain extent, while ensuring that they remained fluent, so as to avoid our development of concrete expectations.

Our foundation was solid enough anyways, I’d made sure of that. Our ethos tested and true, texts for them, or, her, me. Making these decisions demanded an enormous amount of responsibility which we handled deftly and delicately. Like a squirrel scurrying through the prickly residue left by a forest fire, discriminately managing a battalion of images. Steady as she goes, beware the prickles, the hawks and tickles, the otter’s ripples.

Otter’s eat squirrels.

Nowhere did it seem necessary to cultivate a caveat within our mandate insofar as such a facet would translate into an organized body of recalcitrants. We considered such cultivation in the interests of anticipation, in the interests of anticipating a body of contrast, and then dueling with that body even though it was unaware that we had been instrumental in its construction. We decided that even without the caveat such a body would appear and trying to delineate the contours of that body in advance would require more conjuring than the aforementioned potentiality. Hence, we forewent the creation of a caveat and were quaintly interpreting the citizen’s adjustments to our plans, our designs. They were generally crafty which occasionally made things more exciting if and only if we treated each of their complaints as a direct solution to the integrity of our flexibility (in an exclusively internalized format). They couldn’t know that we cared because such caring dangled perilously close to placing organization within our chaos, insofar as it would have manifested a pattern. True, they may be aware of our lack of caring, using that as an expectation through which they could interrogate the quality of our responses, however, if this were the case, they must be behaving in a manner so devious that it has deconstructed our initial gambit (we had three contingency gambits in place for such a development). Naturally, if their plan was of a nature devious enough to subvert and circumvent our policies regarding this matter, we would be forced to seriously applaud.

I was determined enough to continue developing our collection according to our plan even though that plan was designed in the interests of not aligning itself with a version of their plan for any significant period of time so as to avoid allowing them to authentically receive acclaim. It was our collection to be sure, to be confident, and we’d be damned if they were responsible for integrally integrating its structure.

My staff occasionally presents an alternative viewpoint, claiming that perhaps it’s in our best interests to include input while developing, hence, the occasional developments of routines and patterns. But they never considered the big picture, the implications for our development, the future. I was constantly concerned with the future, hence, I needed to ensure that I incorporated their points of view into my plans in the interests of maintaining a semblance of the present within them, aligned with the past. True, if my future was always concerned with the future my past was consequently concerned with the future but it was a different kind of future than that rooted specifically in a tradition, or at least that was what I kept telling myself. Hence, I was content to let things proceed as they had been, for the future.

In another sense our goals were simply Maureen’s reflection. The ocean, her eyes reflected the ocean, commerce, pirates and what not. She’d gotten in with the wrong crowd because she wanted to and who could blame her. When she caught you with one glance of her burgeoning strength you knew you had to develop something.

Of consequence. We are developing something of consequence with ways as if we were born to them. We had to accept a certain degree of expectation in our subtext although our pursuits could never admit as much politically. To remain political within our culture we persevere, diligently, regardless of the vicious designs of their rumour, in the interests of lamenting a forgotten art, for a texture, for a moment. We feel the development of our collection as it comes into being, as it comes to life, wild, chaotic, enraptured plights. It’s in our plans for your delight; accept it, nurture it, bright.

The collection itself develops with rigour regardless. Our Burrough’s section has been somewhat of a shock but it’s no surprise that the most jolting effects of a culture result from its honesty. Check it out when you have a moment to spare, a moment in time, to reason, to care. Note that throughout said time we will be there to analyze, create, always, aware.

Of the bright countenance of truth in still and quiet airs (delightful studies).

*Postscript: Objective Subjectivity

And we sat down and agreed upon a format to follow before designing our policy through recourse to an extended intertextual dialogue after which revisions were requested by upper management and then it was approved.