1) Angry
A sudden jolt into existence: you did it again. The bed and world seem to have dissociated, orbiting the sun at independent speeds. Last night was deep techno, but for some reason the gimmicky pop tune that’s been cycling on that stupid youtube car advert has anchored itself to your last functioning neurone. The chorus spikes along with the invisible drill that’s slowly been making its way to the forefront of your consciousness. Only a handful of seconds pass when you finally leap out of bed. Sticking a sub-par landing on the moving ground, the door violently flies open. You run. The bathroom door is closed. Fuck. Why does everything have to be so complicated? You swing your entire body backwards, striking an odd symbiosis with the opposing forces currently tormenting your gut. The door opens. So close. Your gut has a surprise in store though, and the bathroom floor will do just fine. You collapse next to your latest creation and remember: it’s Tuesday.
You were born in the mid-90s. You can still vividly feel the sensation of wonder that shaped your reality, as clunky desktops cocooned into tactile pocket computers, as legos evolved into playstations. Life was simple. Get a diploma, get a degree, get a job, done deal. To the tune of “we all want to change the world,” you leapt into the problems at hand and got to solving. The list was long. It’s still way too long. But, you’ve decided to pick one and pin your hopes on other humans getting their shit together: good. So you find yourself a year into a contract with a fossil crisis think tank, straddling the lines between the public, academic, and — your attributed locker — private. In the distance a pandemic is wreaking havoc, but your life hasn’t changed much since college. The desk in the corner of the room is quickly becoming your most visited destination, and you’re proficiency in typing under three hundred words of bullshit is nearing master consultant. However, that’s not all. After the first few months of agonising over email signatures, you’re now an expert in signing your one-minute haikus with a despondent “TY” while simultaneously juggling the mute button to paraphrase a point that’s been regurgitated over the last fifty-five minutes.
“It’s all about time,” you find yourself saying, minutes from the end of business hours. It’s Friday, and you’re not about to prolong the time left between you and blackout.
“You see, we’re a little short on resources on our end, and would prefer to prioritise the CCU project [if only we got less funding from shells] over the next two weeks.”
“I understand, bu…and, I think we should schedule a lunch next week to finalise our citizen engagement strategy. It will help lay the grounds for the PPP…to continue removing the silos.”
Oh bureaucrats, bless them, they really do try sometimes. They just want to help, and yet those lingering buzzwords still haunt you. Every time they’re murmured over a crackled connection, you can still feel the unnerving shiver, like goosebumps but bad, stimulate your frustration sensor. Like silo…since when was agri-lingo commonplace for the suited folk. You didn’t grow up on a ranch way out west, so naturally “silo” was not in your vocabulary until it became your only vocabulary.
“Ok, well we’ll connect offline [but actually still via internet] after to schedule it. Anyone have any questions left?”
Mistake! You’ve just guaranteed another few minutes of circular monologues because there’s always that one person who feels they haven’t said quite enough.
“Yes, sorry. Can you hear me?”
“Yep, shoot [WHY?!].”
“Well as was rightly pointed out, the stakeholder engagement facade remains a core component. For us, this would be the perfect opportunity to set aside a paper focused specifically on the…”
Just shut up already. These academics are the pinnacle of pedantry. Obviously it makes sense, given we live in an era of metrics, and counting papers is easier than measuring actual contribution to society. Don’t pause too long on that contributing-to-society thought. It fucks with you every day: ninety-odd percent of grant money flushed into oblivion. Maybe best to just nod and unconsciously pronounce a “we’ll keep that in mind.” The call’s finally over. Thank goodness, you can finally crack open a beer. Also, you’re three pints in so not swaying on screen was starting to become a challenge.
Friday and Saturday blend together. Unspoken cocktails melt your consciousness. It’s only on Sunday that the gaping hole between the universe of the night and the universe of responsibility finally materialises. “Sunday, bloody Sunday.” Sunday is anxiety. It is the very embodiment of your contemporary’s paralysis. The epitome of nostalgia, the definition of stress, Sundays have been haunting you since primary school. The day that marks the end of your freedom and beginning of your regrets. Mercifully, another hangover is hard at work and your isolated couch, for once, presents a comforting shelter to your confused body. The miracle hangover cure also helps, and the day eventually fades.
So that brings you to yesterday. The introduction of a routine week, fuelled by caffeine and nicotine, quickly flushed into a forgotten past. But, there’s a twist. This Monday is not like the others. There are emails. There are too many of them. There is a forced lunch break, where seconds of small talk are counted and arbitraged against the amount of work left to be done. But the usual cowardice is replaced by the revolt. The revolt that has spent years accumulating. The revolt that started as an unexplained discomfort. The revolt that was catalysed by finally understanding what it is to be an “adult.” No, this Monday is not like any others. This Monday is a clean slate.
“I see where you’re coming from,” your manager scoffs, “but those metrics aren’t tailored to our context. You see [oh, how ironic], we would require a more detailed analysis of the fuel composition before confirming the benefits of the overall capture system. Then, we can get to the drafting of the renewable energy alternatives. But it won’t be for another three to five years, I’d think, until we can envisage funding for behavioural change work.”
Your blood begins to boil. You wanted to do something that actually, for fucking once, has a real impact on the wellbeing of your fellow humans. Yet, the one sitting in front of you — who is actually supposed to be one of the good guys — is actively telling you to not do it. Fantastic.
“I understand that it’s not an immediate priority, but it’s extremely relevant in the frame of our ultimate goal. I mean we’re striving to sustain what’s left of our planet, you know, so we should utilise the longest levers we can.”
“Yes but,” you’ve heard it all before, “this would require sign-off from legal, and need to get approval through the ethics request…which can take more than nine months. But I’ll definitely let you know if something similar comes up in the funding pipeline. Either way, the core of the project remains the modelling and you need to get that done first.”
“I don’t know if I agree with that. The model won’t have any impact if it doesn’t mean anything to anyone outside our community.”
“You will still focus on the project at hand. And start with getting the report finalised by tomorrow.”
“Ok.”
You exit the call infuriated. This morning you’d almost convinced yourself to have a “productive” week…you’re already reaching to Friday’s close. A beer just to calm the nerves. Perhaps a second. Is anyone out tonight? A bar would be a healthy place to let off some steam. You don’t know that’s a lie yet. Your friend is sitting beside you, the lights slightly dimmed, a bluesy riff filling the space where laughter and occasional conversations are overheard. They’re not stomaching their tedious law-firm internship. More people shuffle in, all in their twenties, and new rounds are ordered. Talk of problems quickly dissipates as everyone notices the reason you’re all here. You’re here to salvage what’s left of your hours. The jagermeister begins to flow and the house begins to shake. Another night is well underway. You find yourself singing, “I’m tired of waiting for the walls to cave.” To work, or to play, that is the question that trickled out of the first shot. Now tomorrow is today and today, is Tuesday.
