OUT OF THE BLUE

Yesterday I was paid to write poetry. Indirectly. I was taking part in an Insights Discovery profile seminar after having previously completed an online questionnaire - Insights Preference Evaluator. This whole Insights system was built for professional use based on the personality theories of Carl Jung as begun in his treatise Psychological Types. The system is meant to provide a framework for an understanding of ones self, both strengths and weaknesses, enabling effective strategies for interaction and proactive personal development. As a psych student with overly honed critical skills I was more than a bit skeptical that this tool was going to be incredibly accurate, but to my infinite surprise I was surprised. Here's a snippet from the overview I received of my personal style:

"Charles is interested in seeing possibilities beyond what is currently known, accepted or obvious. Although quiet and reserved, he can articulate well on a subject to which he is devoted. He can be a veritable storehouse of information on the things he knows well and understands. Charles is the conceptual problem solver, intensely intellectual and logical, exhibiting flashes of creative brilliance..."

*cough* I'd continue but then where's the fun of getting to know me better if it's all spelled out, right? It's almost a bit disconcerting that this type of accuracy can be achieved by an evaluation like this. In this evaluation you are also fitted with colors, from sunshine yellow, to earth green, to fiery red, to cool blue - I'm a bluish purplish type of fellow, a "reforming observer".

In some ways I think I may have completed this questionnaire in the same manner that I'd tailor a resume to a position. And I would with all confidence be willing to place this profile on my managers desk and let them congratulate themselves on picking someone who has the perfect profile for my position. I say this because I think that these results are strongly tied to situational circumstances - I'd say I'm much more of a fiery red when I'm playing sports and an orange (yellow/red) when I'm out with friends. That said, my propensity for bluishness (and coolness in particular) is strong, though my red and green aren't far behind. It takes more energy for me to slip into a yellowish type of persona - the extraverted feeling, outgoing, enthusiastic, verbally effusive person, who likes recognition, and is irritated by boredom.

For more information on this personality system check out http://www.insightsworld.com/.

BUT, I digress. During the seminar at which we were presented with our completed profiles, we were first made to write about a "sandcastle" to demonstrate our different communication styles. We were given two minutes. Here's what I came up with:

Cool sand packed in with my hands
Smoothed bucketfuls
Arches reinforced by seashells
A moat that runs to the waters edge
filled and filling the ocean
A corner cracked and crumbled
All strange language
written on the beach's page
A castle left standing
nearby the waves
who with slow tickling fingers
will soon erase
Lyrics, Prose, Poetry, have started once more to flow out from me. Last night I recorded a song with a friend playing guitar. We took turns singing it out, playing with the verses and chords, the tempo and feeling. It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience and I feel quite happy to have been able to express myself in a different medium. The song's title "A Ship of Days" comes from the first lyric: "A ship of days - sails - to your isle of nights" I liked this odd lyric so much that I immediately went to work writing a song around it. More to follow on that development I do think.
How's this for a post out of the blue?
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Since University my only creative writing has been committed to screen between taking client calls at Invesco. Now that my time there has passed, I thought it worthwhile, for posterity, to share a select piece of my 'business writing' that had been sent out around the office for the edutainment of my colleagues. 


I don't feel the need to annotate this, or explain away any of the jargon, it would seem most have already had a brush with the call centre, its an east coast thing...



Based on Actual Events


1st Call of the Day


 I just received one of those auto dialer calls that says, “press star to accept the incoming call” then proceeds in a robot voice to spew out a bunch of numbers. I was afterwards connected to a distant voice on a crackling distorted line. 


 The voice was distinctly Arabic and was likely speaking Farsi. On the other end someone was prattling on in a spew of guttural plosives and fricative consonants, seemingly ignorant of my opening. The only English words that I was able to perceive, however indistinctly, were formed into the following sentence, “the American… two million… he dies…”


 At that point I became increasingly anxious but still attempted, albeit somewhat half-heartedly, to build rapport: “So how is the weather in Iran?” Perhaps it was the obvious nervousness in my voice, or the imperious nature of my caller, but I received no response to my friendly overture. Then with curiosity quickly replacing my anxiety, I became emboldened and asked a clarifying security question: “Are you the rep on file?” Again I was met with no response, only the crackly popping from the line and what sounded like feverish breathing on the distant receiver. 


 “Sir?” I continued, “Are you looking to set up a wire transfer? Because if that is the case we have a wire transfer queue I can put you in contact with.” The distant breathing halted, filled in by a sudden eruption of static on the line, then a thin sinewy voice impinged on my right ear drum. “Do that… or he dies,” was distinctly enunciated in a forced English accent. My heart jumped at that moment, not so much at the malicious statement as at the tone and intensity with which it had been uttered. “Okay,” I stammered, “And if you get the voicemail would you like to leave a message.” There was no reply, so I continued, “was there anything else I could help you with today?” There was the sound of a throat being cleared and I waited in anticipation, but again the line was filled only with the hallow popping of static. “Thank you for calling Invesco Trimark,” I managed as I punched in the proper extension number and cold transferred the call with a shudder. 


 Now, a full 45 minutes later, I still sit in after-call filled with anxiety and worry. My hands are trembling as I raise my coffee cup to my mouth, taking little notice of the burning sensation on my tongue as I clumsily fill my mouth. My head is swirling with the potential repercussions that this call might have. I can’t even remember if I properly addressed the terrorists once, let alone said his name three times… Should I have value added, no, it was a directory assistance call. Should I have at least gotten the account number? Was I wrong to have cold transferred? I really hope my call audits don’t suffer.


 Man I think its just going to be one of those days… I need a break.



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Thought Stream

Ah, the formidable blank page, as I snap my letters down its spotless white face offers only contrast. Word after word I commit, composing sentences in mentalese then deftly translating them into English. Here’s a sentence for you, a couple more and we’ll have a thought stream. This stream is not committed to time, no passage of days will dull the original intention, no language barrier can erase its true message. Time will pass, languages will morph, yet my original intent, the qualia of sensory sensation and emotion will remain. In some future millennium, a civilization much like ours, will stumble upon this sentence and be able to revisit, with perfect subjectivity, the thought stream of my mind. The stream, this tributary of mind sitting pooled on this page. Formed carefully into tokens of language, this currency of letters with which we purchase our thoughts. Now, let your eyes relax and stop tearing apart this block of black threads, allow the words to blur and release your focus on them. In the resulting haze the thought of my original intention once more becomes clear. Somewhere in this greyscale haze of black on white, there exists a bird in a cage. These letters are the bars and though the bird has room to spread its wings, it will never be truly free to fly. 0 comments