Disappointman #5

Our hero has met a villain this season,

One that would cause him to slip.

And as he fell, he discovered the reason,

He'd worn the wrong shoes for the trip.

Imagine the scene if you will, a depiction,

One that was indeed tense.

For he lost his balance, and called out to Friction,

But met with his ally's absence.

Disappointman Episode #4

A missed opportunity has caused our hero to write a lament,

An ode to his perpetual disappointment.

For he acquired something rare, this being a date,

But alas he squandered it,

by being very late.

To say it was his fault would not be true,

The thing is,

His sense of time is rather askew.

And so he proceeded to explain in melodic lines,

His peculiar relationship with time:

‘I bask in the present, deluded that it will last,

But the clock ticks still, while I am stuck in the past.

And as I reside there, in relaxed stupor,

It seizes me suddenly,

that beast,

the future.

Underestimate minutes that elapse during my actions.

Eating pieces of time, and chewing its fractions.

And all the while, you lay in wait,

And I am sorry

But I was already ten minutes late.

I know you don’t think I care,

But I was being-towards-the-future,

Deciding what to wear.

And on the bus, I said I’d be there in ten,

But you’d been waiting forty minutes,

And decided to leave then.

Alas I missed you, due to my imbalance,

But I can’t help it, I’m severely time-challenged.

Perhaps I can never atone, but one certainly tries,

So all I can do,

Is melodically apologize.’

And while he was finding chords for this apology,

He saw that it was already half past three.

And elsewhere she stood, at three fifty five,

Still waiting for him to arrive.

So here lies a time-based tragedy,

About a someone who was allergic to punctuality.

The reasons for his ailment, he does not know,

But it might have something to do with his watch,

Being rather slow.

Disappointman episode #3

"Excuse me sir, does one know how to get to this particular road?"
Oh yes I believe so, I shall direct you through anecdote.
Yours is a journey I've taken before,
Take the first left...or was it the third or the fourth?
Then you will across a tree of birch...or was it bay...
"These directions do seem rather vague...'
My apologies madam, it's me I ask you to forgive,
For I am recalling directions from a different narrative.
I'm afraid that with regards to your route, I haven't a clue.
"Oh, I'm in a rush, so for nothing, thank you."

On Porridge

Count from sixty down to one, ask yourself whether that will be enough. Within the whirring of passing time, several scenarios play out in hypothetical space. Pockets of possibility are created, existing simultaneously until a prolonged beep eradicates all but one. And upon opening the door, one is on the threshold of being either content, or regretful. Go back to the start, when bleary eyed, you poured your hopes for the day into a bowl.

There was uncertainty as to how much to invest, for too little would not be enough to sustain, and too much would weigh one down - a burden of disappointment to carry around for a couple of hours at least. You proceeded to go on to the next stage, opening the gate to your heart. For a second, your hopes and dreams floated in a sea of what was yet to be. Doubt continued to present itself, what was needed was a catalyst, something to imbue a sense of reality, and the possibility for this opened with that of the door, and the placing of the bowl within.
And so we return to the present, aware now of what we have invested, yet this awareness is tinged with uncertainty. One counts from sixty to uncertainty, wondering whether the sea of potentiality is too vast. This is a problem, for if one eats from an unbalanced ratio of contents in the bowl, one ends up consuming a diluted sense of fulfillment.

On the other hand, if one’s hopes and dreams lay in a pond, or even still, a puddle of what is yet to be, then there is a danger of starting the day with what can be called a delusion of grandeur. If the balance of the ratio swings the other way, your hopes and dreams will be in want of development, and thus remain in a primitive state that is too savage for reality and thus never be fully realised.
And as you count down from ten, a scenario exists, parallel to this one, in which you sit at the table, slowly chewing on a sense of failure (due to unrealistic hopes) , thinking that you should have added milk instead.
Three, two, one. The door opens, as you reach in, you burn yourself with over-zealousness, for no matter how enthusiastic one is to begin the day, it may be too much, and surges with too much hope and apprehension for one to take in just yet. You must leave at least one minute to settle to prepare for what lies ahead.
This period may seem a liminal one, waiting in a sixty second void, but take up the spoon of assertion, and as you stir, you may gain some semblance of the future. Here you are, take the bowl, the mellow warmth - today. Present it with the cool breeze of excitement, of one that no longer cares to wait.

The first spoonful invokes the banality of the everyday. This is adequate for many, and for some, it is even perfection. But perhaps one does not wish to start the day with a mouthful of stark reality, and wishes rather, to ease into it. There stands before you an array, perhaps you are tempted by the enveloping of an amber mass, torpid and delicious, recalling memories of beautifully scented meadows. Combined with your dreams, its sweetness and evoking distracts from the reality of underachievement, felt at such early hours.
Alternatively, one may opt for a hail of ‘sensible’ masking - several grains of sweetness that can be said to have a slightly better grip on reality. In choosing one or the other, one is choosing to be either romantic, or realistic. Of course, there is a possibility for one to throw caution to the wind and opt for a generous tablespoon of blackberry jam.

As you embark on an everyday adventure, you think back over the two strands of time that facilitated the act of making porridge. Everything is brushed to the past, but you got what you needed. However, there is often a slight miscalculation in the marking of time strands in relation to this morning act. Past and present is noted, but many forget the future. This third strand is forgotten for various reasons, perhaps one never thinks of it, or one is in too much of a rush to think of it in that particular moment.
The danger is that, if one fails to consider the future when it still exists as a future, then they will surely bear the repercussions when the future becomes a regretful past. And so this latter makes itself known to the person, who upon arriving back home after their day of events, finds an empty bowl left on the table. However, This bowl is not completely empty but contains the remnants of the morning’s hopes and dreams, and these hopes and dreams are not as they were - full of warmth and appetizing anticipation for potentiality, but are now hard, irremovable fossils of lost hope.

There they remain in the bowl, as if Medusa herself had cast her glare upon them. There seems to be only one course of action to take, and so one must fill the bowl with regret, ironically from the same source as the potentiality of the morning. Lost hopes and dreams must now remain in this pool of regret until there is an acceptance of what was never achieved, never realised.
This must be done, for one is doing it with a consideration of the future, the morrow, when the process is to be repeated, when a new batch of hopes and dreams are poured in and uncertainty hangs over you as you count from sixty down to one.

Disappointman episode #2

Is it a bird, flying clumsily into a tree?
Is it a plane, severely delayed?
No, it is only Disappointman,
And he’s incredibly late.

Sarcastic Lover Prince: Sympathy For Wilting Herbs

Time for me is unmoving, a dead sea in which there are no waves. This stillness of time is a result of my own stillness within space, I have known nothing but the interior of my castle for about three days. Feeling no desire to travel through social space, I was compelled to stay within the confines of my abode, and the unmoving sea, with its cold stillness, has presented me with the gift of self reflection.

When one is in this state of self reflection it is advised not to be within social space, for it is a truly exhausting experience when he must watch every word escape from his mouth and flutter like autumn leaves into a box of regret. As this box fills up he is always conscious of his manner, where he rests his gaze, his posture, and the way his garments rests upon his shoulders. This is not reflecting as part of a real existence, when one looks in retrospect, after the event. Rather, it is in the moment, reflecting as one goes along, swimming in a tumultuous sea of worry, simultaneous to the event.

Thus, I have remained in the castle from the moment I noticed the symptoms, for one simply cannot survive socially when struck down with such an ailment. I know not what to do, for this illness of mine seems unrelenting, and I cannot stay here forever. At moments such as this, I tend to think about the Ice King. I wonder how he would deal with such situations. I picture him sitting in that cardboard box with a calm exterior and stolid expression, internally tending to his bitterness while showing absolutely no sign of the chaos I imagine to be within him. Perhaps he owes it all to that cardboard box, it may regulate his bitterness, which means it may regulate my self reflection. Perhaps my desperation has caused me to latch onto any absurd thing to find a solution, but it is certainly worth a try.

I manage to find a cardboard box, it seems a bit small but I don’t have any others so I’m going to have to settle. I place one foot in it, and then the other, and slowly crouch down into the box. I’m barely in it when it starts to rip and I find myself on an unintentionally fashioned raft that separates the floor and I. Sitting on my makeshift raft, floating in unregulated self reflecting waters, I decide to leave the castle to go the Ice Palace. I need to communicate with someone, and I come upon the realisation that, in my current state, the Ice King is the only person I can speak to.


A teapot of green tea brews as I stare into the blank eyes of the Ice King. I have been telling him about this illness of mine, my inability to leave the castle, and my short-lived adventure in the cardboard box. I was sure I noticed the faint trace of a wry smile when I recounted the last story. He sits there now, pondering something, turning it over in his head like one turns a pear drop over in their mouth. “Do you think it’s something you ate?” he asks, pouring green tea into both our cups, “something I ate?”
“I remember you telling me that you once felt this way after eating pesto.”
At this moment the Ice King resembles a strange combination of my doctor and some sort of detective, a premise for an abysmal Eighties television programme. “Yes I did feel the same self reflection when I had eaten the pesto, but it only lasted for a short period of time, this has lasted for about three days..” I say as steam rises from my cup. The Ice King takes a sip from his before saying, “I’m not so sure if the self reflective nature of pesto can indeed be measured so concretely in time..”

He has a point. I breathe in the pleasant aroma of the tea, I begin to feel better as the floral fragrance of jasmine envelopes me, filling me with undertones of optimism. Being in social space doesn’t seem as traumatic as it did an hour ago. However, I am not completely cured. As I get up to leave the Palace, the Ice King says, “I’d go for the red pesto next time if I were you,” that faint trace of a smile appears again. I smile and leave the Palace, slightly bewildered at the possibility that the Ice King might have actually made a joke.


Once I get back to the castle I go straight into the kitchen for I stopped off at the supermarket on the way and need to take out the items I bought. I carefully take each item out of the bag and place them on the work surface. Olive oil, garlic, pine nuts, parmesan cheese and basil. I start to feel slightly nervous, for although I find all these things pleasant, I am uncertain of what effect they will have on me, as they the ingredients for pesto. If it is indeed pesto that has struck me down with this self reflective illness then perhaps the only way of being cured is to understand it, deconstruct the nature of it and immerse myself in its process.

After chopping the basil leaves, I put them in a food processor along with the olive oil, three cloves of garlic, a few tablespoons of pine nuts, some parmesan and salt and pepper before blending the ingredients together. The aroma exudes from the blender and wraps itself around me, making me feel slightly nauseous. I empty the contents into a jar and close it, staring at the very thing that has kept me in the castle these last few days. Ironically, I can’t seem to make out my reflection in the jar.

I am uncertain if I have been completely cured, but I understand pesto a little better. I think I can see past its neutrality now, for I know of the individual components that it is comprised of and how it comes to be.

I stare at the pile of invitations that have not been replied to (describing it as a pile endows me with a false sense of popularity. The ‘pile’ consists of no more than two invitations) I decide to go a concert that Disappointman has invited me to. Perhaps the only way to know if I am cured is to immerse myself in social space again.

Disappointman arrives at the venue, he’s half an hour late, but I expected him to be later. His powers must be wavering. I hand him the jar of pesto I made because I know he likes it, he drops it on the floor by accident. Luckily the jar hasn’t cracked and I am safe from the self reflection inducing aroma.
“Ah homemade! Fantastic. Did you grow the basil too? You have a basil plant right?”
“No it’s shop-bought basil, the plant died a few months ago,” Disappointman nods sympathetically, this nodding blends into a dance. I decide to join him.

I’m in a stream of dancing couples, embracing as they float gracefully. It is proving difficult to move with such grace, I’m finding it hard to move my limbs, their rigidity cuts through the gentle flow. I am aware of every movement I make, and each of these movements is attached to regret. As I move awkwardly I start to feel guilty about the basil plant that had wilted and died as a result of my failure to water it. It had been completely removed from my memory. Maybe that’s when it all started, perhaps the guilt within me had manifested as self reflection when I ate pesto. Perhaps I’m making excuses for my awful dancing.
I sit down, staring at the dancing stream, hoping that I too might float gracefully through it one day.

*

It’s a Sunday morning, thus begins that day of reflection. Part of my maintaining a real existence involves looking back at the week’s events to anchor myself in uncertain seas. To be honest, I think I’ve been reflecting a bit too much of late, and have grown tiresome of the whole business. I walk into the kitchen and boil some water. I pour myself a cup of jasmine tea and breathe in the sweet fragrance of optimism. Sunlight pours in, washing over me as sprouting basil leaves emerge to meet it.

Disappointman episode #1

Flying at the speed of shame
to be forever late,
but send a barrage of apologies
to drown you in a thousand sorrys,
A broken vase
with good intentions
of which shards cry,
s-o-r-r-y.
Watch him thwart the plans
of hand-eye coordination
and good timekeeping,
for he will never fail
he will never cease
to be so endlessly,
endlessly
Disappointing.