Perfect Pairs

Some Notes On Slacking (Or Suspending Disbelief While Maintaining One's Balance)

Couture:
Dress appropriately. There are three acceptable options:
1. wear black (it flatters and flattens the figure, and gives you a certain and elegant gravitas)
2. wear colours that complement the particular slack-line you're walking on (yellow and black if you're on the Gibbon Jibline, green or red when walking the Heinz Zak Mountain Equipment Chill line)
3. wear camouflage (so you're not spotted).

Etiquette:
1. maintain a sombre disposition (especially when slacking in the local cemetery)
2. when confronted by officials - be they council workers or park-rangers - emphasise your middle-class credentials (extensive vocabulary and clearly-articulated vowels). That way, the intellectual and spiritual element of your pursuit will be recognised, revered and condoned. (One way to ensure community goodwill is to pretend that you're training in aid of some charity event - one that supports those less able and balanced than you)
3. if slacking with another, don't hog the line (remember, the better you get the longer it takes for you to fall off). Set an egg-timer for ten minutes and remove yourself from the line immediately once the alarm rings.

Concentration:
1. Never look at the line; find a focal point that is equivalent to your eye-level and fix an unwavering gaze on it
2. When people approach you, twist 180 degrees on the balls of your feet, and turn your back on them
3. Clear your mind of all that distracts you; a mantra can be useful. Quite often, though, you'll find yourself bouncing to a tune. My current favourite is 'Like A Rolling Stone'.

FAQ:
1. 'Are you training for the Olympics?'
2. 'Are you planning to run away with the circus?'
3. 'What do you think you're doing?'

Things To Anticipate (and ignore):
1. People staring (and occasionally clapping)
2. People making strange, loud noises such as 'boo'
3. People pestering you to let them have a go
4. People asking 'what do you think you're doing?'

Suture

'So,' she said with a sway, as she surfed the Zak-line. 'I was right, can't you see, when it came to eBay? Just auction your stuff, and all will be fine. Abandon materialism; just live for the day.'

'But, don't you regret that you're selling your past?' He was drinking again; he'd forsaken his fast. He'd forsaken the regime that ensured he stayed stable. He was downing the vino and feeling less than able; to maintain his equilibrium in meetings and crits. If he were honest, he'd admit he was losing his grip.

'Losing my past, well there's certainly something to ponder. But my family history's so dysfunctional that I'm tempted to wonder. To wonder if I need to dwell on what's done. In terms of our surname, I am now the only one.  My father is gone, and so is my brother. My mother remarried; swapped our last name for another. So I'm thinking of choosing a name of my own. A name that I like; one that has a nice tone. A name that reflects what's essential to me. You can do it by deed-pole, for a nominal fee.'

'Yes, you can change it by deed-pole, I've seen the brochure.  But, listen, if you don't have a past, can you hope for a future?'

'Yes, you can if you take on the notion of suture. A psychoanalytical term, but it seems to make sense, whether you're inhabiting the past, present or future tense. Suture's about failing to notice the 'seams' that stitch together one's belief in certain realities and dreams. I guess you could call it a suspension of disbelief. Now, if you steal someone's name, are you considered a thief?'

He was no longer listening; was uncorking some wine. As for her, she had just stepped off the Jibline. And, quick as a flash, she jumped onto the Chill. As with suture, maintaining one's balance on a slack-line was a matter of will. For a second she wobbled, and looked ready to fall, but she lifted her arms and suddenly stood tall. The tension was perfect; the line was quite still. Like eBay, this slacking was proving a thrill.

The Point of 0.6 (7)

Carnival

'Is this a new game?', she asked. Sincere. They were following her here and trailiing her there. Already, she'd told them as they accompanied her to the loo, 'this is only for women. It's not for you. You can't come in,' she had tried to explain. 'The little boys' room's left. Surely that's plain?' They'd waited outside, but had looked quite bereft.

At the end of the day they had walked her to her car. 'I can manage myself, it's really not far. I'm parked at the front and I've not much to carry.' As they stood by her vehicle: 'there's no need to tarry. Of course, there've been times when I forgot where I'm parked, but . . .'.  'Just get in and go home,' one of them had suddenly barked.

So, the day had been odd, right from the start. She had felt this the moment she'd walked in the office; they'd all turned to stare at her, faces set in a grimace. She had set a line early and slacked before work.  As a consequence, her hair was unbrushed and her trouser-legs muddy. She had no make-up on and her face was quite ruddy; from the effort, you see, of balancing on a tape. But it made her feel well. It was her new form of escape. To get off the wire, get her feet back on the ground, felt like a terrible breach, she now often found. 

She had set up her laptop and begun work on some task, but she'd noticed their faces were set in a mask. They all looked the same (and it wasn't that pretty). What was wrong with them, she wondered. It seemed such a pity. She feared they all took their jobs too seriously. But the profession was in crisis; the institution a ship of fools. To not see its absurdity was a form of insanity. She had long ceased to feel any real sense of sympathy. 

As she walked to the canteen, down the corridor and stairs, she began to get nervous; she was not unawares, that behind her the masks were now walking in line. An organised procession, they were marching in time, to the beat of her heart that now beat like a drum. They were blowing on pipes, all fingers and thumb. She considered it an omen of bad things to come. 

And, then she remembered, for Christians it was Lent. Perhaps that's what gave them this terrible bent? While she had been slacking perhaps they were lacking the things they'd enjoyed, like chocolate and wine. The things that enabled the full-time employed to believe they were fine? 

Then it suddenly dawned; the idea was spawned. A long time ago she had read Bakhtin on Rabelais; the socio-cultural imperative for grotesque revelry and play. The desire for freedom from hierarchies, replaced by community. A sense of embodied-ness, albeit collectively. The impulse to defy political order and law. Of course, she thought to herself, that's what all this is for.

They were feeling disempowered, completely oppressed. The masks were merely a strategy of the disillusioned and dispossessed. The carnival dress both concealed and made manifest all that they felt, all that was repressed. 

And, to be honest, she would have found it a hoot, but for the fact that she hated both piccolo and flute.

The Point of 0.6 (6)

Freitag: One Rabbit and a Washbag

'Thank God it's Friday', she said with a smile.  'Not today, I accept, but tomorrow: soon.  In a while (what a boon).  I have to say, I'm waiting, anticipating, somewhat salivating at the thought.'

'You're in a hurry to leave, I can tell,' he acknowledged.  He was still feeling extremely unwell. The shit was hitting the fan, and it took it out of a man. The chickens were coming home to roost. He'd already scoffed two Snickers bars and a Boost, but his blood sugar was still down. He was in a fix. Perhaps, like her, he should have gone 0.6. . .

'Well, you see, it's like this.  I'm experiencing something akin to bliss. I've begun to feel fine; I can turn on the line. The slack-wire, I mean. I walk like a queen - forwards and backwards - with my head held high and my pelvic bone fully centred. Of course, I couldn't have done it on my own.  I needed to be mentored. My innate disposition is somewhat slack; I tend to do better with someone on my back. But, by some incredible miracle, I've found a man who has reminded me of the things that I can do. It turns out he's pretty agile, too.'

'So, you'll be quitting us soon,' he said with a grimace. 'You'll be packing your bag.'

'I hope so,' she agreed.  'I feel I'm in need; in need of job satisfaction of sorts that this place can't give. Have you ever read Montaigne's extraordinary essays on how to live? It seems you have almost to die before you think to ask why; why am I here and how should i 'be'? I finally think I'm beginning to see.'

'See what?' he replied, no longer sounding snide. He was beginning to understand why babies cried; no words to speak about how they felt. No way to counter, except with screams of frustration, the arbitrary cards they were dealt.

'This might sound like I'm going off course, but I'm done with this place, even if they've managed to validate yet another bloody horse. It's all so base. It's all about profit, all about cash. It's all about money, honey; really, I do have to dash. This place makes me sick; everyone seems so terribly thick. I'm off to pack my bag, as you suggest. Take what I need and leave all the trash. I now have a lovely little number, a little wash-bag. It comes from Zurich - the company that made it is called Freitag. It has just enough room for toothpaste and toothbrush, tweezers and face cream. I wish you all well but I'm afraid it's auf wiedersehen; I'm orf to follow my dream.'

The Point of 0.6 (3)

Slacking

'The problem is, they exhaust your good will,' balancing one-legged on the office windowsill.

'The consequence? The temptation is to start slacking when one's hard slog is ignored yet the whip is apparently still cracking'.  She stuck out her right leg and pointed the toe.  Then she raised her left arm above her head. 'Surely, my dear colleagues, this is the reality we all inhabit,' she said.

From the corner: 'and what's happened to your Protestant work ethic?' he sniped. He was now suffering from frequent headaches and the need for an occasional gripe.

'Alas my father was an atheist; I never made it to the font. No christening gown for me. No ceremony nor pomp. What interests me is that while orthodox religion turns me queazy, makes me feel slightly sick, I generally consider myself, my views, quite catholic.' She bent her head momentarily to admire her new shoes. Pearl-pink, snug-fitting and chamois-soled. Her next purchase, she'd promised herself, would be a tutu.

'I'm sorry, I digress. I was dreaming of my new dress. Where was I?' She twisted her head close to 180 degrees, positioned her arms at right angles to her torso and bent her knees. Her next project was to turn on one foot without losing her poise.

'You were advocating slacking,' he interjected. 'Or were you talking about vomitting?'

'No, actually, I was saying I often feel quite catholic. But, yes, that's precisely why, historically, I've often found myself retching. It's akin, I'm sure, to the ritual of confession. Rid yourself, cleanse yourself of all you despise and loath; all you hate, can't cope with and regret. A form of purification, I suspect.  Well, I'm guessing.'

'And the slacking?'

'Just learn to walk the line.'

'What?'

'I've always been in praise of idleness.'

'That's fine, but I have no idea what you mean.'

'OK, here goes: however hard you try they'll always manage to find you lacking. In the face of all this modern work-place crap my suggestion is why not try slacking?'

'Do nothing?'

'No. Not at all.  Rather, decide what's important and risk putting your neck on the line. My advice: learn to balance on a slack wire; in the business, it's called a slack-line.'