2/28/2018 0 Comments
I think it should start off in grade school. They should ask kids to play by themselves. Those who don't listen, who wander around the room distracting other kids, throwing cardboard building bricks, playing "I'm not touching you"... they are suitable for the workplace.
Those who play by themselves happily, occupy themselves with stickers or a book, they are not suitable for the workplace and should be ushered into an alternate occupation.
A creative mind thrives off independence and shouldn't be forced to fit in a box not made for it.
Many people don't favor this opinion because it implies that the person in question is "special" (which in this day and age is the pejorative equivalent of calling someone a "millenial"). Nine times out of ten the person in question will have problems with authority--and not in the 80's punk rock Heathers way but in the psychological way where every incompetency results in a higher octave of perpetual internal screaming.
Fast forward a few years and the sticker-loving introvert is stuck at a desk job, wondering why it seems so hard.
Belonging to the generation of kids branded with a scarlet E (Entitled), the idea of leaving a job that makes you feel like shit about yourself is a no-brainer. To the adults who raised them, it's professional suicide. You might as well claim your cardboard box outside the adult bookstore and start learning how to speak squirrel.
Maybe all of this is true and maybe using the term "funemployment" is the cringey equivalent of daily affirmations in front of the bathroom mirror.
Without a doubt, not knowing where your next dollar is coming from is sometimes an overwhelming thought. But it's also a thought that reminds you of who you are.
When you remove the voices telling you to "work harder, do more, get married, follow directions, listen up, be successful, obey orders," you're left with only yourself as company.
At first Yourself will have a voice that sounds a lot like those that told you to live for your next paycheck. But after a while Yourself grows back to what it was when you were a kid. And as you explore your independence, you feel yourself getting more in tune with the world around you. After a while you start to once again hear the perpetual OM: the steady knowledge that no matter what you do or where you go, you're safe inside yourself, and happy to be there enjoying the ride.
Maybe at the end of the day you get a job as a waitress, or you start schooling all over again, or you get rid of all your belongings and live in a van (each option honorable in its own right). Regardless, you'll figure it out as you go. The world will carry you with it.
An absurd observation about humans: when they create baked goods from scratch, it's like watching someone come into parenthood. "Look how sweet they are!" they coo into the oven window. "Oh no this poor guy" they whisper while holding the exploded seams of a broken pastry pocket.
I've learned this week I am no better off. Look at these eleven lil guys:
1. Stewart: the ladies can't resist his bulbous forehead.
2. Rex: so angry he's actually burst the vein in his neck.
3. Percy: extremely suspect, a lot of holes in his stories.
4. Squamous: uncomfortable, unable to use full sentences.
5. Brock: Mr. Popular. gregarious, funny, and warm.
6. Doreen: wants everyone to quiet the fuck down.
7. Sherwin: delightfully plump, bashful.
8. Erin: nondescript. maybe a serial killer.
9. Maggie: very flirtatious; prone to blushing.
10. Barnaby: doesn't like the way you're looking at him.
11. Latrice: perpetual optimist, watches a lot of The Bachelor.
Before: ugly white and clear vases from Goodwill
After: black vases a vampire would love
I think it cost me a total of about 10 dollars. I already had the flowers... just one can of black spray paint later and I ended up with this ghoulish delight. The black angel was really hard to photograph but just take my word that it turned out rad as hell (though admittedly, the Catholic school girl in me cringed when the tar hit its sweet anemic little face).
"'Men love war because it allows them to look serious. Because they imagine it is the one thing that stops women laughing at them. In it they can reduce women to the status of objects. That is the great distinction between the sexes. Men see objects, women see the relationship between objects. Whether the objects need each other, love each other, match each other. It is an extra dimension of feeling we men are without at one that makes war abhorrent to all real women--and absurd. I will tell you what war is. War is a psychosis caused by an inability to see relationships. Our relationship with our fellowmen. Our relationship with our economic and historical situation. And above all our relationship to nothingness. To death.'"
"Before, I read that they found Amelia Earhart. Conclusive I guess. On the island that had been checked off in 1940 as Searched. Opened clam shells, a jackknife shattered apart for its blade, for maybe a fishing spear. A fire pit. Ancient crumbling makeup. A plexiglas airplane window. A woman's shoe. Bones. Chips of bones. The DNA verified against a living female Earhart cousin. Of course it was her island, she and the navigator castaways for how long until they succumbed to what? The coral atoll from the air: elliptical oasis with a central lagoon. Flat outer reef at low tide like a parking lot. The Lockheed Electra with a landing configuration stall speed of fifty five mph, she'd need seven hundred feet, no more. Wading the meager provisions to shore maybe injured. Maybe not low tide, maybe the gear torn off by water. Maybe blood in the water. Running out of fuel over the Pacific taking gratefully what comes. That they made that tiny island at all. Living off of shells and rain.
Shells and rain.
And the company of another, just one."