Wednesday

If I care so much about work, why haven’t I gotten anywhere with it - I wonder about this at 3:48am, unable to sleep because work thoughts are keeping me awake... MAYBE I SHOULD BE ASKING: If I care so little about work, why am I awake at 3:48am thinking about work... I'm not supposed to be caring about work. What the ?

...with these questions, these run-on sentences which start out as questions but just end up being clueless, aimless statements - these twitching chops of paragraphs (currently of the work variety but not always so)...these clumps of words, they do tend to run on, and then I think: Hey, maybe this is some kind of poem, maybe I'm being visited...but it’s not a poem. It's the broken thoughts of an incoherent idiot (there is a difference) (am I getting less and less coherent, less and less comprehensible - so that one day I'll wake up and start yackin, and nobody will know what the hell I'm talkin about (because I won't be talkin about anything, I'll just be saying words that don't go together (and then a Human Resources Representative will take me by the hand to a little room where he or she will show me a series of pictures depicting...me, turning in my card key and walking out to my car and driving away and not coming back as coworkers wave to me through the window with relieved smiles on the faces)))

(For now, work is the reality. For some reason they let me continue to go there and drink their coffee, and they give me money every two weeks too. (I have this image of myself: image of an idiot who smiles too much - and at the wrong time...and who also scowls too much - and at the wrong time...and who knocks things over and screws things up...image of an idiot getting by just barely))

I have another image of myself. Image of completely independent, uninfluenced...guy...tough guy...loner (but in a cool way) thinker reader observer outsider (dare I say it? writer) spits at work, like outside - spits, COULD NOT CARE LESS, don't give a sheeyit, does just enough to get by but basically...whatever...point made...

Work is the reality. Work is where I have to go every day. Even if I try to convince myself that I’m way up above it - that I only go to work for the paycheck, that I don’t really care what happens there as long as I get that paycheck...well...obviously I do care - my brain won’t let me off work that easily. It’s a weird duality: I really do not want to care about work. But I do care - I care on an instinctive level, I guess. Work problems bother me long after I’ve left work. I feel like I should have the work thing licked - all the work done when I leave - so that I can go home without any guilt or cares at all and forget about it until the alarm goes off the next morning.

When I wake up at these weird hours because of work stuff buggin me, I might type long e-mails that I never intend to send. Typing all this mess out helps me sort it out. But then I just have these files sitting on my computer that will never be read - files that I can’t bring myself to delete.

Friday

My brother was homeless a few times. He told me a story about one of his homeless stints. The story, really, was about this feeling he got one time when he was homeless. He had just bought some bread and some ham at the grocery store. He went out in the parking lot and was standing at one of those huge blocks of concrete, like a concrete footing that the light pole is mounted on. This concrete footing has a little ledge on top - like a countertop almost. So he’s standing there putting ham slices between slices of bread at his little improvised counter top in the middle of a big parking lot, and he’s trying to hurry because he wanted to catch a ride somewhere. So he’s making his sandwiches and jamming them into the bread bag...and he looks around...and he wonders: What the hell am I doing? What the hell am I doing...standing in the middle of a parking lot making ham sandwiches on top of some dirty block of concrete. . .

Monday

I hate my job, but then I have hated every job I’ve ever had. (It is, after all, WORK: the slightly evolved version of lions chasing wildebeests). Every job has had some dreaded, loathsome thing or person or people. I’ve survived. I’ve worked in a lot crazier places than this one. So I guess I’ll hang around where I’m at until some real reason comes along to leave. I might as well make my stand here. Get on with some serious existence. Some breathin and some thinkin. That’s one of the great things of my current job. Lots of opportunities to think. I’ll try to erode some of the rough edges, and I’ll develop some calluses. . . all that serenity stuff.

Sunday













sprint through the saw palmettos

PILLS: A Rant

I have crazy pill fiend neighbors. And so do you, probably.

Think about it. Pharmaceutical companies keep pumping the population full of pills. Pharmaceutical companies are in business to make money. They seek to maximize profit by maximizing sales. Everybody’s on something. Remember when all of the sudden, every commercial on TV during the evening news was a pill commercial? And the FDA is bought and sold on the market - big pharma can push whatever wild concoctions through that they want. Doctors are enlisted as street level dealers. Doctors prescribe pills for everything. Doctors prescribe pills for sadness. Pills can’t cure sadness.

Pharmaceutical companies concentrate their efforts on selling drugs to rich, fat, depressed, limp people - drugs they can make money on. If they’d dedicate as much effort to distribution of HIV drugs for the developing world and malaria drugs and just drugs that cure the most minor - minor things which are major in developing worlds . . . they could save so many more lives . . . but saving lives in developing worlds isn’t cost effective.

ANYWAY - My pill fiend neighbors (and yours) . . . they’re popping pills and washing them down with Jim Beam and kicking out their windows and kicking holes in walls and beating each other senseless and flailing around wrecking cars and ending up in jail or the hospital or the grave. When I read my local sheriff's arrest report web page, it’s pill fiend after pill fiend. And I’ve been in one particular neighborhood where - I swear - it’s like Heart of Darkness in there. Everybody is on pills. Everybody is on Medicaid. There are probably gigantic government contracts where big pharma sells to Medicaid so Medicaid has to move a certain amount of pills in order to keep the contract moving and lucrative . . . painkillers for people on disability, mood drugs, all that shit . . . overprescribing people wholesale . . . overprescribing vulnerable people. So you have entire neighborhoods full of people who don't work, who just sit around all day popping pills, which half the time are gained legally, half the time illegally, and there's also crack and smack, and nobody works, and there's no structure, and it's just a bunch of wasted people walking around . . .

And then when they run out of their pills . . . the horror

Saturday

WORK? Work is the opposite of what you should be doing. Animals work - they drag other dead animals - their dinner - back to their holes. They gather acorns and bring them back to their hollow trees or whatever. Humans should be thinking - - like THINKING - - about other stuff. We should have this work thing licked. It should all be higher thinking and smarty pants stuff at this point. But no. No. We still got dumb asses out there hoarding as much as they can - ruining it for everybody.

Thursday

I hate it when somebody is using some kind of textbook strategy on me. I hate it when somebody shifts their share of the weight of the world onto me without first knocking off some of the rough edges. I hate more severe things too: I hate gun shots on Christmas Eve - responses to gunshots from Thanksgiving. I hate hospitals. I hate less severe things: I hate it when I have the window seat, and the passenger in the middle seat is osculating his head around and bobbing and weaving to get every glimpse from every angle of every landmark he can get from the middle seat - breathing some kind of horrible vapors, like a combination of tobacco juice and strange meats right into my face. I hate having vacation days and not being able to use them. I hate that the vacation was more punishing than the work I was vacationing from. I hate reindeer and their games. I hate working my butt off while people around me socialize all day, and then I am told I’m the one not keeping up with deadlines. I hate my self doubt. I hate feeling out of place. I hate the prospect that my writing dream is slipping away from me because I don’t know what to submit nor where to submit it; nor do I know how to find time and energy to develop anything. So what do I do? I put up stickers and leave notes everywhere.