I’ve been reading too much Raymi. It’s really– it’s like having an exclamation mark pointed directly at your eye. It’s like being in an echo chamber, except the echoes are colours, and they cycle twelve hundred times in one day. It’s– hard to explain. I don’t explain it right. I’m almost blogged out, as you can see. That’s what this post is about. That I go there, with a soft mind, let myself be warped, be warped and post this, is about the best evidence I have.
This is from there:
Chloe: I just start to feel soft
the one time i had an full time office job I got fat and soft
That’s what it’s like, working full time. In a job you don’t like. That’s not– you, it’s not you, you do it, but you don’t give to it in a whole way, because you don’t want to or have to. But you come home tired, and you are tired the next day, and at night you want to sleep with your wife, and you don’t have time for anything else, and that’s all. You can make time for other things. But you don’t, always. Not really, consistently.
I have two jobs and one is just about to end. I can’t wait. When my second job ends, I will be working three days. It will be enough. I’ll have the extra time, that I know I need. I’ll pick up the slack at the house, do walkarounds, do more routinely my creative things. I know one job works and is best, for me, I knew that, one small job, I got cornered into this second one, it’s almost done, I laugh: yes!
I was thinking on the ride home, yesterday: I don’t want to be that fat, sad man at gatherings. The one with the egg shape. The small, delicate hands. Stuck in a corner of a booth, drinking his drink. Saying, with apologies, “I don’t really like my job, it’s just something I… do.” Leaning in to understand his soft face, thin voice.