Posted by: zookuki on Jan 11, 2011
For the past two and a half years working for this company I've helplessly watched my job description regress invisibly from being a full-blown writer to the point where I am now making small proofing changes, copying and pasting crap and also retyping copy from pdf’s or web to word.
Every cell inside me is tossing toys from the cot, yet I know that no other positions I would take up would offer me the financial security of this job.
What a bloody conundrum!
Advice from different sources scream at me to take the untrodden road and go on the adventure that is unemployement to seek out that which satisfies the hunger for meaning inside me OR for heaven’s sake just stay put and be thankful for your monthly paycheck you unthankful idiot.
Chances are, I’ll stay put for another two years, by which time my studies would be finished (bursary: another perk of working here) and I would have squashed these pipe-dreams of mine into a realistic working-woman suit... decent and normal and all.
Thing is, though I’ve read their names and seen them on TV... those amazing explorers of the human dream who’ve chased down their destiny and found fame and fortune along with their calling, are strangers – far and impalpable. There aren’t any close examples - an uncle, a friend, a foe who borders my world – of people who have liberated themselves from the corporate and fiscal model to actively seek out their romantic dream and turn it into wealth.
I guess everyone has a Crazy-Uncle-Bob somewhere in their genealogy who’s sold handmade garden furniture or tie-dye clothing – but he’s also the ridicule of society... the romantic bum who's not going anywhere and sleeps on people's couches.
And I guess that’s it. Richard Branson’s of the world aside, there is no romance in work. There’s no sentiment to choosing your vocation. It’s a practical, feasible, choice that you make every day to be bored to death in order to feed your family.
I’ve tried thinking like that... but my mind is not fooled. It will always remain the rebel who would rather bleed to death on the battlefield than admit foolishness or transgression.
It romances me with blissful visions of travel writing, watching surfers and commenting on their gait, painting masterpieces on a mountaintop somewhere, taking photographs from the sky, cooking delectable dishes, getting my hands muddy with earth, walking around and getting paid to talk to strangers about fashion and music, getting paid to taste chocolate or watch my favourite bands bash it out on stage, earning a living by walking around a store as a mystery shopper, teaching kids what poetry’s all about.
Aaah, what a child I am, and always will be - rebelling against this thing which everyone eventually submits to, this thing which no one can escape, this thing which eats dreams, digests them and excretes shitty remnants of them – this thing called complacency.