This page is purely the thoughts of the author(s). May this be a breeding ground for discussion, debate and new ideas.

Sunday, May 2, 2010

The Office Furniture Mythology

(Entries of Record by the Underlings)
Kathy Elrick (contributor)

about the following entries: This work is a compilation of contributed
observations by the cautious, wide-eyed innocents who have been
shackled to office work because of their breeding to think rather than
to act up in violent retort.  While often silent to their supervisors'
mimicked bureaucratic questionnaire that feigns resemblance to a once
human curiosity sparked inquiry, these workers keep track of their
observations which the gnomes (mostly) would rather be kept outside the
notice of human authority.
These incomplete entries concern the
inner workings of office/administrative atmospheres, detailing the
actual, and slightly mythological, context which explains how the old
and superstitious world works in the new mechanized office culture.
Like anything forwarded in a random office FW email, none of this can
be proven.  But often rumors of the legitimacy of these instances can
be spotted in the cases of the overworked and underpaid student
assistants and interns.  Whether or not such speculation and
superstition should be ignored is up to the reader of these entries.

Lipschitz Krawley (Paper shredder in Graduate Studies Office)
the reincarnated Forest Kraken (eater of Colossal Pulp)

Krawley was a great creature of the forest,originally a mountain-like
creature with cracks of earth for a mouth, who devoured trees for their
possession of tree goblins, nasty hellion creatures who live within the wood.
Lipschitz Krawley has been reincarnated for the same purpose in this
compact box, eating the tree goblins still remaining in paper, now
squished into a 2-dimensional sheet of 8x11, still ready to cause
mischief and fear.  Paper cuts mainly.  If you listen closely, you will
hear the screams of the goblins as the paper crinkles into the mouth of
the beast, and the appreciative gurgling hum of Lipschitz Krawley’s
satisfaction as the paper disappears into the inner chambers.

Flimitz Krawley (Paper shredder in the Registrar)
reincarnated Forest Kraken, cousin to Lipschitz Krawley

grinding of it's teeth against the brittle smashed compost of tree
goblin bones.  The opening of its chest to find the plastic bag that
has replaced its innards, defiling the lost memory of the greater
intestinal being that was the internal workings of the Krawley clan.
Tying a knot at the top of the bag, you continue to smash down the
goblins who fill it.  The hum of the beast as it gnashes apart the
paper-lings reminds you it is still alive, albeit contained besides
you.  Flimitz is dependent on you for it's continued quest, the
sentence bequeathed to it by the god that salvaged the rampaging forest
krakens as they died of starvation from the tree goblin's blight and
thinning from modern man, the god known as Zerox, fellow to Janus and

Goblin scribes (printers)

Common to most
offices are the magicked Gutenberg boxes which imprint upon the mangled
and pressed carcasses of tree goblins.  The products of these boxes
hold properties of many types:  stories, laws, the very essence of
human knowledge, binding the tree goblins to their fates as 8x11
mummified artifacts.  The magicked boxes are vivified with the electric
air of Mercury, the messenger.  It is with these goblin carcasses which
Mercury communicates to the humans about what the divine have decreed,
and the Muses freed from the hearts of men.

Bhafari snakes. (Corded Phones)

to desks these dangerous beings are obsolete connectors to the networks
of the netherwerks, managed by a Medusa-like incarnation of the goddess
Lethe.  Dial tones, lost connections, static and oblivion are her area
of expertise.  Her office can be found in the void just past the office supply storage closet of Abyss.

The absence of mini-fridge gnomes (why the lights went out in the frigid-air territories)

is a long story which I am only starting to unravel about the
intermingling world of the gnomes and the office atmosphere.  This
particular quick installment looks at the reason for the absence of
lights in the majority if not all mini-fridges to be found in offices,
as compared to these fridges' larger cousins of regular 6" size. 
suggestion that these fridges are portals to the cold territory of the
gnomes is obvious.  No human understands how these portals work
exactly, but there was supposed to be lights in the smaller fridges.
But because of their frequency in areas where there have been clashes
between these gnomes and their previous kinsman, the carpet scrubbing
gnomes (which will be mentioned later) who frequent the more traveled
areas of the office, the mini-fridges became abandon trails which are
supposed to be unwelcoming to the carpet scrubbing gnomes.  In this
sense, the cool natures of the fridge gnomes produced a wall to the
friction produced by their former kinsman.

Carpet-Scrubber gnomes

are the kinsmen of the mini-fridge gnomes.  They were former
mini-fridge and large fridge gnomes who were disgruntled with the cold
portals and wished to remain within the usual office atmosphere, thus
willing to clean floors.  Both kinds of gnomes are quick to work with
the various forms of water and earth, and can manipulate these office
tools to their advantage.  So these gnomes are able to work the carpet
shampooers when no one is asked to shampoo the rugs, or has not done so
in a while.  These gnomes are notorious for their spontaneity, as well
as for their mischievous deeds, such as making empty envelopes left in
the lower drawers be glued shut, or making copy paper left on the floor
move to other spots, or become damp.

Frederick, the dead carcass of the closet roach
(the memory of infestation, preserved with the gentle lint spun cobwebs and demur dust bunnies)

The battle of the muffin crumb
were enough roaches to feed upon the splendor that in reality was more
than a mere crumb, it was a full out mound of muffin that had been
disregarded by accident of its previous claimer.  The young roach-let
gangs called in all their kin to join the feast in the coming night of
the closing closet door. 
However, one of their kin was unwise,
and went towards the horizon that lay at the edge of night that oversaw
the inner space of the closet world.  This roach-let, seeing what lay
outside the cave, gave reason for the large being that might have more
muffins to gasp in horror and outrage.  "Shit."  Was the last thing
tiny Roceeda heard before being smooshed with a Norton's copy of
Shakespeare Entire Collection.  The being spread the dawn of doom to
the community which had gathered first in feast, now scattering in
Sometime within the week as the mound had been taken away
and the scene had become a perpetual source of fear to the community,
their fears were finally realized that fateful true night.  The light
switch outside the closet brought the beginning of the apocalypse for
this community with the man who bore the sign of "Orkin" on his
breast.  The community stood their linoleum however, which made the
Orkin man admit the need for back up.  This cell phone call was a
battle cry to the roaches, a sure sign of their impending demise of
their communities within the building that the little Frederick as a
young roach-let had come to know and love.  With the certainty of a
godlike power imbedded in that canister brought in by the 2nd Orkin
man, the holocaust descended upon and between the crevices where
community staid, ending the lives of dozens which so recently neared a
hundred in so short a time.  But Frederick was frozen in this state, as
reminder of time gone
by, the remnant of gourmand appreciation in the midst of the folly of the unwise.

Tree Goblin Mausoleums (Filing Cabinets)

Billboards on the file cabinets, displaying the scripture on the tree goblins, their mortuary and simple mausoleum, capitalist style.

Tinfoil Toad/Reptile

odd looking thing that remains in the tower of frigid air, that palace
of piece-mail meals which remain somehow even when the thoroughest
clean has been done - it's almost as if it is a chameleon that blends
into the thermometer or ice trays, the odd statue that no one wants to
see the core of.  Yet it glimmers and grins out at the unsuspecting
passer-bys, having evaded the death of consumption by humans, even if
it is an inner host for mold and other spore creatures.

The Small Bird Valets -

hold the spots for cars, standing there as markers.  They direct
traffic from the curb, hence curbside service.  And they know the town;
they can get that "birds-eye view" of the town to get you the best spot
for your purpose.  They see you coming, and they will direct you
accordingly.  They don't move unless they have to, and they can keep
eye level with the driver, or otherwise they are easily out of sight -
mainly because they have flitted off to the next driver's side.

Mercury on the Boulevard

badminton, confusing the valets.  You see Mercury brandishing a racket
and hitting to the wind which catches up the little plastic birdy, but
the birds are not amused and somewhat disgusted.  They stand next to
the discarded shuttlecocks, a comparable height, before the steam from
the grates often picks it up and brings it back to the wind for the
next round.

Tea Pirates and Plastic Spoon Thieves

bandits blend in like the chameleons of the fridge - they are every
where and no where all at once.  They are the every worker, they are
the CEO.  These thieves are Hobbesean free riders who think that any
odd budget will allow for some wiggle room of a single serving or a
disposable item.  Pilfered tea is their horded treasure.

The Institutionalized Gateways...

on the fritz, or computers emitting the sounds of their insanity?  It's
hard to tell, but the beeps keep coming from computers that shouldn't
be on, and no one is quite sure which computer its' coming from.  It's
hard to tell, but this also could be a terror-tactic coup of the
computers, not merely viruses sent out by some generated computer hack,
but the computers denying their status as slaves to the Man.  It's
rumored they have absconded with electronic records from the Second
Wave Women's movement.  The beeps continue.

The Goblin Boxes of Gore

discarded bank boxes in the empty cubicles over near the storage
closet, where only a few people in the department ever pass by, is the
refuge of these stores of old files.  These boxes have been moved
around, bashed, taped, and marked dozes of times.  No one notices the
way the lids have curled under the heat register, as well as the odd
markings which have been appearing on them, as if the goblin's cousins
have taken over the corpses of cardboard for the sake of making a
message.  Red marks which appear to be nothing more than Sharpie run
off looks as if it had dripped down the side of a few of the boxes, the
mechanical blood of the possibly repossessed unattended stacks.  Also,
these boxes seem to be multiplying without the notice of any of the
workers, spreading to portions of the cubicles under the desks, trying
to take root and regrow in their more natural form.  The water pipes
aren't too far off...

Late Office Hours

The air
from the heat registers numbs the feet, making it impossible to move
from the desk.  The odd personality quirks burrow deeper into the
workaholic mindset of the people remaining, creating hallucinations of
paranoia in each ledger entry made, the tri-mark of Hypnos, Manea and Kronos.  The dark atmosphere
outside creates a false sense of security in the glow of the florescent
lighting, while the fairies and gnomes start their conversations with
the spirits of the tree goblins.  Flashing lights on the phones of
abandon cubicles are like the sounds of trees falling in the forest
with no one around...

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