too much thoughts and not enough ink
I am so tired I feel like someone has removed half of my brain. All I can think about is writing, but my faculties above are on strike from lack of sleep. I’d strike too but I must feign the image of a diligent worker. I long for the day when I can go to work and really care about what I’m throwing so much of my time at, and conversely the day when I will have enough sleep stored inside so that I don’t default into robot mode. I keep thinking, as I sit quite bored at my better-than-most but completely-devoid-of-a-future office job, I am so torn about degrees. While I scale education and learning higher than most things possible, college degrees seem to only be neighbors between the unholy temples of false clout and unnecessary bullshit, located in the city of propagated diversity. All this well understood, I still find myself slowly nodding at the reality of the situation - that being that vested experience, which I always value supreme, is no match for a state-board approved debt-dedication completion certificate, and should I attempt to offer myself for such a dream job such as assistant writer, editor etc, I might be shoved off for lack of said paper. I don’t want to fall prey to this silently malicious debacle.
The terms are stated clearly: will a college degree get you an enjoyable job (or even one that remotely relates to your degree)? No. All this inclusive, is it considered necessary? Yes. The futility of the necessity is a model portrait of an ironic Woody Allen-esque catch 22. My lack of faith in the college factory system will surely drive me into the dirt, I just need to remember to bring a typewriter and some smokes while I’m down there. Though I suppose whatever gets me writing should always be revered as fuel, blessed conflict that it is. Why should I consider myself deserving of anything beyond the regulated stigmas that everyone else dodges and/or comes face-to-face with? Blecgh.
Degree or not, the back right corner of my mind imagines me starting work in some film production company, sloughing off data entry in some crappy storage room with dusty film reels, empty 80s water coolers and electric pencil sharpeners. Here is where I would complete the bare-bones duties only an intern would enjoy. Here is where I would happily sip my coffee, soaking up every conversation I could wish to overhear, observing every nuance I could hope to shadow and slowly overcoming time with a concrete understanding that would propel me into higher planes of involvement. I want to learn this shit inside and out, and I believe in starting at the bottom. I just wish there wasn’t a giant suckage of my time as a prerequisite to entry-level work.
The reason these thoughts come to mind that is that recently I’ve realized I (merely?) want to be happy in life, and I don’t necessarily put that weight on whatever job I will be doing - although I’ve learned in the best way possible how important an enjoyable job is. My happiness should come from my own projects and relationships, the goal here for me is to meld the two together: to have my energies sincerely vested in work projects, and to have enjoyable relationships with those I work with. and then to find a home in my true love - the plastic variety of fangs. *
There is much on my delirious mind. And now its time for a break.
What a model employee I am not.
Love,
Little Sister.
The terms are stated clearly: will a college degree get you an enjoyable job (or even one that remotely relates to your degree)? No. All this inclusive, is it considered necessary? Yes. The futility of the necessity is a model portrait of an ironic Woody Allen-esque catch 22. My lack of faith in the college factory system will surely drive me into the dirt, I just need to remember to bring a typewriter and some smokes while I’m down there. Though I suppose whatever gets me writing should always be revered as fuel, blessed conflict that it is. Why should I consider myself deserving of anything beyond the regulated stigmas that everyone else dodges and/or comes face-to-face with? Blecgh.
Degree or not, the back right corner of my mind imagines me starting work in some film production company, sloughing off data entry in some crappy storage room with dusty film reels, empty 80s water coolers and electric pencil sharpeners. Here is where I would complete the bare-bones duties only an intern would enjoy. Here is where I would happily sip my coffee, soaking up every conversation I could wish to overhear, observing every nuance I could hope to shadow and slowly overcoming time with a concrete understanding that would propel me into higher planes of involvement. I want to learn this shit inside and out, and I believe in starting at the bottom. I just wish there wasn’t a giant suckage of my time as a prerequisite to entry-level work.
The reason these thoughts come to mind that is that recently I’ve realized I (merely?) want to be happy in life, and I don’t necessarily put that weight on whatever job I will be doing - although I’ve learned in the best way possible how important an enjoyable job is. My happiness should come from my own projects and relationships, the goal here for me is to meld the two together: to have my energies sincerely vested in work projects, and to have enjoyable relationships with those I work with. and then to find a home in my true love - the plastic variety of fangs. *
There is much on my delirious mind. And now its time for a break.
What a model employee I am not.
Love,
Little Sister.