Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Counting The Cost
The cost of working in a job. What is it worth? What price do I pay for treading the daily mill in the office or whatever? The cleverest disguise or ingenious strategy cannot protect me from the accumulating forfeit charge. The depletion of my self esteem does not enter their account by direct debit once a month, it is not televised. The true knowledge of it is waiting for me in the car at the end of the working day, glad to be in my own space again. This accumulation of particles cakes the outer casing of the brain. I open my pockets to it. Give everything and then what change do I get given? The money which I gain I save or spend on things external. What is my proper activity, my real reason? I have a flat and furniture, DVD player and mini disc system. Then I must be satisfied. My watch is ticking faster now than before. The manager is pressing with growing frustration! They know you don’t want to do it. Your face doesn’t fit. You don’t belong here. We all know it’s only a matter of time. I bet you’ll be glad to get out of here.
It’s good to do something you like. Even if it means throwing away the things that hold most meaning to you. Do it in your spare time. You get holidays! See it as a hobby, a part time activity, secondary to your main job. Just do it now and again, when the feeling takes you. It’s difficult to concentrate I know and you feel very tired most evenings, yes, but that doesn’t matter. It’s not really important. You work more than the set hours as that is what’s expected. My god you earn enough money! I now have enough money to be able to rest in the evenings and weekends.
The snow is swirling outside as if it were blowing about inside one of those artificial air tunnels at medium strength. Viewed from my small rectangular window the particals look like bits of white sand being thrown about by the force of the sea current. The distance fields are obliterated by the blizzard mist. The grid of roads below lies quiet and untouched save for vehicles with company signs on them, fog lights on, eating the dots along their pac-man trail. The doors are shut to the rest homes, abandoned for the day: breading grounds for future employees: tax payers, cigar handle moulders, book sleeve laminators, carpet cleaning chemical distributors, deep sea diving insurance salesman, tropical fish installers, animal cell cleaners, underground bus drivers. A plane (I cannot see) swooshes past the flat, making a sound like an oncoming nuclear explosion, first the force of the blast, then the burning heat. But no, it went, and back to quiet again. Industrial tourist advisers, reality TV show instructors, theatrical street sweepers, humorous ticket collectors, miming helicopter landing signalman.
