what does your life mean?
earlier tonight, after checking out the newly remodeled fred meyer we used to live across the street from, and dropping a bunch of cash, we passed a karate studio, and somehow i was inspired to think that i don't really want to be doing my job for too many more years. my company sells steel and iron castings to major equipment manufacturers, which is cool, if you're into that sort of thing, but what it really boils down to is money. i mean, duh, kinda obvious, business in general is about money, that's the whole point, but i feel like the corner of industry i've found myself in is particularly devoid of any kind of... redeeming value or meaning. i would like to work, if not at something i directly like as an end in itself, like playing music or writing novels (making a living at either of which endeavors being unlikely), at least at something i can believe in in some way. like a non-profit that houses and cares for abused women, or a company that brings music to inner cities, or a yoga studio where people come to make their lives better.
pure business is so mercenary. and honestly, the examples i give above are going further in the other direction than i need. i don't know what i want to do, but i would really like it if the company i worked for was involved in an endeavor i could buy into in some meaningful way. kelly has suggested buying mae's restaurant on phinney ridge a couple times, and that is somewhat appealing. working for myself would be cool, and feeding people is a lot more obviously beneficial than selling counterweights.
i have to tell myself, while i think down these lines, that i do make music, and write books, and read a lot, and spend time with family and friends, all of which give my life meaning. there's a lot to be said for that. but i just can't get beyond the fact that my occupation takes up half my waking life most days. half my waking life. and i find myself robbing myself of sleep to stretch out the other half rather more than i should. so i find myself at work after a late night at open mic or writing, exhausted, staring at a towering pile of data entry and spreadsheet manipulation, all of which is strictly in service to making a buck.
bah. maybe i'm being ridiculous. what's wrong with making a buck, after all? i like bucks. the more the better, really, when you get right down to it. maybe part of my dissatisfaction is that my labor is making somebody else a lot more bucks than it's making me. but shit, what the fuck else would i be doing with my time? probably not making as much money as i am now. this post is not very well arranged. i'm gonna go to bed and read some more mansfield park. and in related news i continue to adore jane austen. in the past month or so i've reread emma and persuasion and now mansfield park. i just love her. her command of the english language was formidable. not to mention her perspicacity and insight. she was a fuckin mad sav, not to put too fine a point on it.
pure business is so mercenary. and honestly, the examples i give above are going further in the other direction than i need. i don't know what i want to do, but i would really like it if the company i worked for was involved in an endeavor i could buy into in some meaningful way. kelly has suggested buying mae's restaurant on phinney ridge a couple times, and that is somewhat appealing. working for myself would be cool, and feeding people is a lot more obviously beneficial than selling counterweights.
i have to tell myself, while i think down these lines, that i do make music, and write books, and read a lot, and spend time with family and friends, all of which give my life meaning. there's a lot to be said for that. but i just can't get beyond the fact that my occupation takes up half my waking life most days. half my waking life. and i find myself robbing myself of sleep to stretch out the other half rather more than i should. so i find myself at work after a late night at open mic or writing, exhausted, staring at a towering pile of data entry and spreadsheet manipulation, all of which is strictly in service to making a buck.
bah. maybe i'm being ridiculous. what's wrong with making a buck, after all? i like bucks. the more the better, really, when you get right down to it. maybe part of my dissatisfaction is that my labor is making somebody else a lot more bucks than it's making me. but shit, what the fuck else would i be doing with my time? probably not making as much money as i am now. this post is not very well arranged. i'm gonna go to bed and read some more mansfield park. and in related news i continue to adore jane austen. in the past month or so i've reread emma and persuasion and now mansfield park. i just love her. her command of the english language was formidable. not to mention her perspicacity and insight. she was a fuckin mad sav, not to put too fine a point on it.