From 12 December 2001

(Note to self: follow own advice...)

Wednesday. Wednesday, bloody Wednesday.

This morning Matilda asked me why I had to go to work every day. "Because they want me there every day," I lamely answered.

Such a simply question and no good answer. Oh, of course money, money, money, but what else? There are those making their own way in life. At least I think there are. I haven't really met anyone doing it.

Well, there are the wealthy. But I am not of that ilk.
There are the homeless. Is there really nobility in freezing your testes off and smelling slightly worse than a North Carolina hog farm? I mean are dreams made of shopping carts and grocery bags filled with rags?

So between these two points, what? Eight hour days, Five days a week. Or, I guess more accurately, ninety hour weeks to day labor for paltry pay. So my average work week, is an average life, too.

I fantasize about living a more natural life. Something Melina calls an organic existence. A life where the seams all fit and I wouldn't feel as if I'd wasted over eight hours of my day. A life that did not compartmentalize my life into employee time, dad time, husband time, friend time, etc.

Matilda asked the real question a couple of weeks ago. Another gloomy morning, another probing question: "Why do you like going to work?" Assuming I'd only go to work every morning if I really liked it.

I told her, "I don't like to go to work every morning." I left satisfied that I had imparted a good life lesson. Some things, even if you don' t like them, have to be done.

Now I regret giving her that lesson. Yes, it is true, sometimes we must do what we'd rather not, but the more pernicious lesson was dissatisfaction. Go to a job you do not like, do what only barely interests you. Settle. Resign yourself to the work compartment, after all, when you get your mind and body back you will have time for the "more important" things.

But work time never comes back. I think of William Faulkner working for the post office. Drunk, behind a locked door, drinking and reading people's mail. I am not sure what to with this image. Admire the nose thumbing or condemn the bad faith, the misconduct?

Because often this whole thing comes down to behaving or misbehaving. I readily surrender certain "freedoms" that I may live in an orderly society. I value conscientious living. Hell, even when I break rules it is from conscience and principle. So how do I proceed?

The question becomes, what can I do that makes me happy?

I have a little dream, the dream of near self-sufficiency. I do not want to be extreme, but I think it would be rewarding to grow what I eat, etc... I know it is a dream, but there is nothing wrong with that.

I think of all the time I waste. Waste on TV, on internet news websites, waste, I don't know where. I watch these shows on TV and even the ones I like, the ones I am curious to see the developing story line, etc, and I know my life is not made better by them at all. Movies occasionally challenge me, make me aware of something bigger, but its rare a TV show does the same. Why do movies work as art, but not TV shows? They are either mere entertainment or preachy misrepresentations. Maybe it would be something to make an artistic TV show.

Even the shows raved about by critics. The Sopranos sucks. Sex and the City is a boring, cliche ridden show. Even the premise of women talking about sex being taboo is cliche. What women have these critics been hanging around? As far as I know, women have, are and have been interested in sex. I could go on, but why? I wonder why critics are so easily duped.

I do go on.

And all of this is just to say: I need to find a way to make money doing something I like.