It’s daft of me, ya know, to even pretend I like my job. I won’t say I hate it…least not usually, I’m far far away from lovin’ it though.
As I’ve perused the various employment emails flowing in, as I wade through the various keyword search subscriptions I’ve made, it all becomes this blur of sameness, with different job titles. ALL, every single one, means you are at the mercy of some ‘other’, with objectives far removed from your own. The larger the corp to which you are employed, the more removed becomes the objective.
I recall Mom having a conversation in the kitchen concerning jobs with you, I believe it was the year before you died. Specifically how you felt alittle cheated that you had never become a Graphic Artist…maybe you thought you could just do it later…and two kids, a marriage, and life took over, and it never happened. I get that Mom. I got it then…I just don’t agree.
You had it all you know. I know you may see it from a different perspective, or you did back then, but you DID become a Graphic Artist; you just taught yer damn self.
MOM, you were working on a Mac doing Ad’s for a newspaper…what the hell do you think you’d be doing if you had gone to BealArt? Em? Where do you think you’d be? In some big Ad firm outa the big smoke? Do you EVER really see yourself in a place like that?
NO, you would have been right exactly where you ended up…if you were lucky. Believe me, I DREAM of a job like that.
Oh sure, you work for another, but the other is innocuous. AND to spend ones day in a place so far removed from the cold corporate mundanity, oh what bliss that would be.
In that world, everyone’s selling something, and if you ain’t selling, you’re wasted breath waltzing around in flesh; or you’re the mark. All those work-a-day capitalists, believing themselves immune to the corporate identity, yet a mere worker bee. I watch as they build the honey-pot for their masters, ingesting the lies and half-truths sprinkled religiously.
It is with tremendous reserve that I keep these thoughts to myself. Tis none of their business what my true feelings are towards my job. It serves no one to complain, as I will not become one of them. Standing around in the smoking pit, with always the same refrain. Atleast that is normally my objective.
Of late though I’ve, by my standards, let er rip. And that won’t do. I must find even a slice of what you had at the paper.
So in the meantime I will just have to adapt more to my surroundings, and give myself time to search for what I really want.
It’s time I think Mom. It’s time.