my mom is helping me job hunt and when i told her my dream job is to sit in one place and sort stuff by color all day she made a really disgusted face and said “you want to work on a fucking assembly line?” like yeah
not to philosophize on your personal post or whatever but this really illustrates the problem with capitalism because there’s literally nothing wrong with working in an assembly line—other than, of course, the way the workers are treated.
you (and me, let’s be honest, because i would love to have a job like that) not only deserve to sort things by color all day but to also be treated with dignity and get paid a thriving wage for that work, and i am so very confused by why that’s a controversial statement.
the best job i ever had was making cushions for packages out of tissue paper. just over and over and over again. i had the best time doing that. it just would have been nice if it wasn’t ten hour shifts without air conditioning or seating.
Not everyone wants to be the king. Some people simply want to work the stables because they get to be around horses all day.
it’s not just wanting to be the king or whatever (though I hATE how wealth accumulation and ownership is pushed as the only metric of ‘success’)
it’s work that’s about solving puzzles, or that’s repetitive, or built entirely off social interaction, or entirely avoids social interaction, or is full of variety day-to-day; work that’s stationary, that requires lots of movement, that’s in one place or all over the place. it’s the endless variety of tasks needed (and desired) by society and the ways in which they’re broken up.
it’s the joy in doing something you love. and the pride in doing it well.
grumpy white collars who hate their job but took it because it’s not manual labour, assembly work, or customer service can fuck right off
We want to be useful, and we want to make people happy
Pay attention to this.
I think it’s easy to forget as a middle-aged that the beginning of something as nebulous as a career is daunting. I look ahead to taking classes and what I want to do next and just feel like “well, I’ll get there soon enough” with no real sense of pressure or hunger because I’m confident I’ll achieve it, but two decades ago I was absolutely DONE with classes and studying and ready to get on with work and paychecks and having some sense of adult accomplishment because no advice or kind words from older folks would make me believe that everything would be alright.
It’s difficult to explain what it feels like to get it. Not an approximation or a landing in the general vicinity, but 100% of what I hoped I would get, decided I would get, and finally just went out and got. It’s a blessed moment of peaceful happiness not unlike a massive release of endorphins. One of those fist-pumpingly grand times that prompts me to pace the room right before and then sit in a big, comfortable chair to ponder what it means afterward.
That’s what that list is about. The List.
You know the multitude of tattooed bodies that whiz by in your dashboard? (Actually, pretty rare these days. Too many pictures and all. Sensory overload). They’re even more hot to the touch. They write about following the trails of the inked flesh to their origins, but try getting an eyeful of a sleeve or a real mean chest piece. Press your nose to her and really go in beyond the macro shot. It gets sort of blotchy. Think of blotting watercolor drops with a napkin. If you let yourself go further, the lines move. They form shapes that aren’t there to anyone but you. If you’re the sort to get lost in moments like those and disconnect a bit from reality, it makes you feel something. Nothing I can name. What I’m getting at is the achievement was not about any of that. It was simply to be with a tattooed sex goddess in the raunchiest and most base sense of satisfaction. Really nail one, you know? The sex was good enough for a few hours. That sense of disconnected pleasure in her lines is what stuck.
The achievement, then, is just a marker. Here Lies The Girl With The Koi And Flower Tattoos And Jet-Black Hair. R.I.P. Live On A Boat.
When the getting is done, there’s the scratching an item off a list. There’s that pondering. And, well, a continuation of living everything in between the getting exactly 100% of what I want. Back to insecurities, bitterness, joyous moments and wins that are inexplicably more difficult to divulge. (It’s a real head-scratcher.)
What I was thinking too sarcastically even for my taste was that life would be great if I got exactly what I wanted all the time. Nothing would ever suck and an endless procession of satisfaction would reign until the end of time.
It’s difficult to explain what it feels like to get it. Not an approximation or a landing in the general vicinity, but 100% of what I hoped I would get, decided I would get, and finally just went out and got. It’s a blessed moment of peaceful happiness not unlike a massive release of endorphins. One of those fist-pumpingly grand times that prompts me to pace the room right before and then sit in a big, comfortable chair to ponder what it means afterward.
That’s what that list is about. The List.
You know the multitude of tattooed bodies that whiz by in your dashboard? (Actually, pretty rare these days. Too many pictures and all. Sensory overload). They’re even more hot to the touch. They write about following the trails of the inked flesh to their origins, but try getting an eyeful of a sleeve or a real mean chest piece. Press your nose to her and really go in beyond the macro shot. It gets sort of blotchy. Think of blotting watercolor drops with a napkin. If you let yourself go further, the lines move. They form shapes that aren’t there to anyone but you. If you’re the sort to get lost in moments like those and disconnect a bit from reality, it makes you feel something. Nothing I can name. What I’m getting at is the achievement was not about any of that. It was simply to be with a tattooed sex goddess in the raunchiest and most base sense of satisfaction. Really nail one, you know? The sex was good enough for a few hours. That sense of disconnected pleasure in her lines is what stuck.
The achievement, then, is just a marker. Here Lies The Girl With The Koi And Flower Tattoos And Jet-Black Hair. R.I.P. Live On A Boat.
When the getting is done, there’s the scratching an item off a list. There’s that pondering. And, well, a continuation of living everything in between the getting exactly 100% of what I want. Back to insecurities, bitterness, joyous moments and wins that are inexplicably more difficult to divulge. (It’s a real head-scratcher.)
What I was thinking too sarcastically even for my taste was that life would be great if I got exactly what I wanted all the time. Nothing would ever suck and an endless procession of satisfaction would reign until the end of time.
Being jobless is a very real and unfortunate state to be in. I feel most for men and women who’ve lost their jobs and are having difficulties providing for a family. I still recall a couple of bouts of joblessness my father went through and I don’t think I’d ever seen someone so despondent over something. I didn’t understand the importance of a steady income and how it correlates to the survival of a family in this modern world. But it matters. Jesus, does it matter.
That said, though, I’ve been without wife and children since I started working at 17. And I’ve never been fired, laid off, or otherwise released from a position. I was always the one in charge of that particular aspect of my destiny. I chose to leave or stay. Years later, now, I’m the one who thinks they’re lucky to have me. I could be anywhere, but I’m here. Enjoy your good fortune.
So imagine trying to shake this off in favor of notions of being on contract, with the risk for being laid off far increased. Or, damn, freelance… self-employed. That kind of risk, man. It’s unfamiliar territory. A new adventure.
The first thing I think of in relation to being laid off is “vacation!”, but that’s corporate mentality. I’m full aware that it’d be a matter of days before the exasperation wore me down. I’d do what I’ve done in the last week: apply. Apply everywhere. San Francisco, Austin, New York, Seattle, Los Angeles, Munich. Go where the jobs are. Someplace new and fresh. Someplace with the job I want, where I can settle. Something about that—being flexible.
I once considered following a girl to Germany. The risk didn’t seem worth it. I wouldn’t have a job lined up before I got there.
“Munich, Munich, where have you been all my life? Mein Gott!”
That’s a thing, I hear. Falling in love with places. Planning to go from A to Z and settling down somewhere between M and N. The locale brings about some resurrection of the soul that was buried at the height of heartless city livin’.
And if I couldn’t any job? Sell it all. There’s not much to own living on a boat. Sell what’s left and keep the Jeep. Visit the folks before I go through another long run of not visiting. See my brothers, the lazy fucks. Good guys. Among the few people I trust.
That’s all a-wishin’ and no doin’, so in the meantime I’ll continue to apply like a mad man. I just found a gig out in New York working with Kickstarter, which sure is something. They say if you make it there you’ll make it anywhere. Single, family man, whatever.
Just one more day dream: a life as someone who helps others find work. Everyone needs something to do.
Being jobless is a very real and unfortunate state to be in. I feel most for men and women who’ve lost their jobs and are having difficulties providing for a family. I still recall a couple of bouts of joblessness my father went through and I don’t think I’d ever seen someone so despondent over something. I didn’t understand the importance of a steady income and how it correlates to the survival of a family in this modern world. But it matters. Jesus, does it matter.
That said, though, I’ve been without wife and children since I started working at 17. And I’ve never been fired, laid off, or otherwise released from a position. I was always the one in charge of that particular aspect of my destiny. I chose to leave or stay. Years later, now, I’m the one who thinks they’re lucky to have me. I could be anywhere, but I’m here. Enjoy your good fortune.
So imagine trying to shake this off in favor of notions of being on contract, with the risk for being laid off far increased. Or, damn, freelance… self-employed. That kind of risk, man. It’s unfamiliar territory. A new adventure.
The first thing I think of in relation to being laid off is “vacation!”, but that’s corporate mentality. I’m full aware that it’d be a matter of days before the exasperation wore me down. I’d do what I’ve done in the last week: apply. Apply everywhere. San Francisco, Austin, New York, Seattle, Los Angeles, Munich. Go where the jobs are. Someplace new and fresh. Someplace with the job I want, where I can settle. Something about that—being flexible.
I once considered following a girl to Germany. The risk didn’t seem worth it. I wouldn’t have a job lined up before I got there.
“Munich, Munich, where have you been all my life? Mein Gott!”
That’s a thing, I hear. Falling in love with places. Planning to go from A to Z and settling down somewhere between M and N. The locale brings about some resurrection of the soul that was buried at the height of heartless city livin’.
And if I couldn’t any job? Sell it all. There’s not much to own living on a boat. Sell what’s left and keep the Jeep. Visit the folks before I go through another long run of not visiting. See my brothers, the lazy fucks. Good guys. Among the few people I trust.
That’s all a-wishin’ and no doin’, so in the meantime I’ll continue to apply like a mad man. I just found a gig out in New York working with Kickstarter, which sure is something. They say if you make it there you’ll make it anywhere. Single, family man, whatever.
Just one more day dream: a life as someone who helps others find work. Everyone needs something to do.