Monday, 17 May 2010

Bob Ceremsak with Farallon Capital Management and without

Without Goldman. Bob Ceremsak will be leaving Goldman Sachs at some point in the future of this cosmos. Not time in the past, but in the future times. Bob will be moving in space and time, like a mystic dancer with a nose of flames. Sandfire up his nose. He guards the candle. We must respect that. Fire to his mind! Death to the ... I don't know, I'll think of someone or something we can threaten with The End, on Bob's behalf. It's the least we can do. For this Bob. We expect he will become one with Farallon Capital Management. Merge into the firm. Lose his identity. Lucky Bob! I wish I had his luck, his easy life, his charmed life. I fear my identity will never be lost. I have an ego to support.

I wanted to die this morning. That’s how bad things were. Oh, we have to keep fighting, don't we? Must we? Yes! But I am happy to write about Bob. I have drifted beyond this morning's misery. I will never think of Tiraneh Tehranchian again. Let her disappear! Her head, a head rolling, rolling, rolling. Be gone from my consciousness! Fuck it! I want to focus on Bob. I need Bob in my mind. If I can focus on Bob, I may be able to transcend him, and Goldman, and Farallon Capital Management, and reach the higher life. And forget about Tiraneh, that rolling head. Rolling! Even if I fail this time, there will be other posts, other bankers like Bob. There are other bankers like Bob! Bob Ceremsak is/was a managing director of prime brokerage sales in Goldman's San Francisco office. Yes, he was/is. Prime. Brokerage. Sales. Prime. Cuts. Across the face. 'That's not rough, that's choice.' Irrelevant! Why do I allow this?

I wish I knew what I was/is. I wish I could escape was/is. I wish I knew. I wish I could escape. I wish I could leave words behind. I wish I could leave Bob Ceremsak behind. I wish I could leave Goldman Sachs behind. A gold man shadow, golden shadow, a golem, fading into the sun. That is my soul. Just fucking get rid of it. I feel sick. Sick enough to lose everything. Lose. Everything. Sick.

I'm going to kill something. I'm going to kill the planet. This is what happens when you cannot be satisfied. I must get back to Bob. If I can hang on to Bob, then I can hang on to my sanity. This is from Farallon's website: 'The firm manages equity capital for institutions and high net worth individuals. Farallon's institutional investors are primarily college endowments and foundations. Farallon employs approximately 175 people in eight offices globally, including our headquarters in San Francisco, California.' I hope Bob will be happy there. I want Bob to be happy. If Bob is happy there, I will be happy here, wherever 'here' is. Am I here? Have I ever been here? Or have I always been over there, crying in the corner? Disconnected. I am relying on Bob Ceremsak. Bob Ceremsak better come through for me. Bob Ceremsak better save me.

I searched for Bob on Google. I couldn't find out anything substantial about him. I need to know this man. I want to know what makes him tick. I know he is a guardian of the Mystic Candle. That's a good sign. But I don't know how old he is. I don't know what he looks like. I should have seen him in one of my dreams, one of my astral wanderings, but I have not seen him. Is he hiding from me? Does he fear me? Does he think I will poison him with my awful consciousness, that he will become infected? Does he think I will drive him insane? Does he imagine I will be waiting for him when he gets home from work, with a hammer? I am nothing like that! Does he think I will harm him?

I wouldn't do that. I would never harm Bob. I wouldn't lay a finger on Mr Ceremsak. I wouldn't touch him. I would watch him. I would follow him through the desert at night. But I would keep a respectful distance. I have respect for these people. I am not a fucking communist. You have got to respect these people. They make money, for Christ's sake! The money makers are dying out! We should cherish them.

Oh, we will. That's what we're about, eh? Yes.