"...You know that famous painting of the gypsy Arab traveler sleeping with his mandolin and the lion gazing on him?"
Regular readers know I lost my job in June; but I don’t know if I’ve mentioned how much I love being unemployed. Fuck work. I read these articles about unemployment and how people are so desperate for jobs and I have to ask why? Why do you want to work? You hate being alone with yourself that much? It’s that uncomfortable? If so, maybe you should work on that. Course most people need money. Got that wife and house and kids and car payments. All those bullshit American symbols of alleged adulthood which induce a man to sell-out for a bi-weekly paycheck. Or monthly. And can you really live on what they’re paying you? Get ahead? Or just getting by?
Here’s a news-flash for you reader. You don’t need to work to make money. There are other ways. For example you can steal it. That’s what they do here in New York. All those Wall Street CEO’s and Bernie Madoff’s. Cash-in on other people’s ambitious greed and in doing so satisfy your own. How many bank CEO’s went to jail after Madoff? Or after the financial collapse of 2008? I’m unaware of a single one* (*might want to fact-check that).
Or you could go into politics. Seems to have worked well for the Bush’s--how’d they make their money again? And Obama should do fairly well for himself once his term’s up. And good for him, I like that guy. If he’s anything like me he probably never realized how many sour peckerwoods; unemployable minorities; and middle-class dullards make-up this country ‘til he got to actually meet and represent ‘em.
But don’t worry Mr. President, take it from me. Once you quit working you’re gonna love life again. I sleep-in as late as I want. Nap in the afternoon. Respond to a few ads on Monster before going to the gym or the beach. I’m down to my high-school weight of 146 pounds and ripped-up like like a kid half my age. With a nice tan too.
And to have time to read--what a humanizing pleasure! This summer I’ve read: Sexus by Henry Miller; Augie March by Saul Bellow; White Tiger by Aravind Adiga; and Death of Artemio Cruz by Carlos Fuentes. Big, wordy, fiction books. Stained glass books (as John Barth might say) as opposed to the clean, no-nonsense histories or autobiographies I’d normally read.
These books really speak to me. Like my own voice, only so much more insightful and original. For example from Sexus*:
“...I realized the world would only begin to get something of value from me the moment I stopped being a serious member of society and became--myself. The State, the nation, the united nations of the world were nothing but an aggregation of individuals who repeated the mistakes of their forefathers. They were caught in the wheel from birth and they kept at it ‘til death--and this treadmill they tried to dignify by calling it life. But if you asked anyone to explain or define life, what was the be-all and end-all, you got a blank look for an answer. ...Those in the thick of life, “the plugs in the harness,” had no time for such questions.”
Almost like he was talking directly to me reader.
And from Augie March*:
“...She had the power achieved by those who lie still. ...You know that famous painting of the gypsy Arab traveler sleeping with his mandolin and the lion gazing on him? That doesn’t mean the lion respects his repose. No, it means the Arab’s immobility controls the lion. This is magic. Passivity plus power.”
Course the best lines are always the simplest. Like Carlos Fuentes when he says, “We’re all the children of fucked mothers.” If that doesn’t nail the human condition I don’t know what does.
I’m telling you reader, to hell with work. With jobs. With the nation-state and obligations. This Labor Day my suggestion is to stay put and watch the world go round. Take a Long Intermission from the work-week and avoid the deluge of human mediocrity that presently totals 7 billion (and growing everyday). If you’re not a farmer or a doctor; a great artist or perhaps an engineer then all you’re doing is busy-work anyway. Busyness to keep you occupied. ‘Til the next inevitable war. And any reader of mine should be smarter than to get involved in that nonsense.
So do yourself a favor and enjoy the freedom of Labor Day!
“I did a fair amount of research in literature and among modern thinkers. The first conclusions were obvious. Boredom starts with useless effort. You have shortcomings and aren’t what you should be? Boredom is the conviction that you can’t change. You begin to worry about loss of variety in your character and the uncomplimentary comparison with others in your secret mind, and this makes you feel your own tiresomeness. On your social side boredom is a manifestation of the power of society. The stronger society is, the more it expects you to hold yourself in readiness to perform your social duties, the greater your availability, the smaller your significance. On Monday you are justifying yourself by your work. But on Sunday how are you justified? Hideous Sunday, enemy of humanity. Sunday you’re on your own--free. But free for what?...
--From Augie March, Saul Bellow.
* NOTE: All text stolen from the great writers is copyrighted, yet used without permission from any of 'em (since they're all dead). Any issues from their Estates, you just let me know!
* *ADDITIONAL NOTE: Photos of Henry Miller, Carlos Fuentes, and Saul Bellow were stolen off Google Images and may be copyrighted.
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