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why is it 2.30am
-what's worse, I sent a work email at 11pm. I would say I had become one of those people but I am sure as fuck not being paid for it, yet.
I am so freaking tired that being able to sleep ought to be a gimme, but noooooo. Okay, so I jumped, inside three weeks, from being an unemployed loser to working a scheduled 56 hours a week for two different companies in three different places, and I am finding it hard to shift gears when I get home. That slithering shell of words won't go away. I've tried concoctions of cocoa, art, whiskey. I know what represents sleep and I can't reach it any more.
But I'm enjoying this? Knowing it's not forever helps, and at the same time keeps me on that pleasurable kismetic bender where I am thoroughly obsessed with how wrong everything is. I spent this evening looking up treasury regulations on wikipedia and reading a significant court judgement that contains the line 'Petitioners also owned books about ponies'. I am both hooked on this shit and also massively skeeved by it, legally, culturally and ethically. I keep thinking of that thing that guy said about the pre-recession years in Greece, when 'the lights were off' and everyone saw the government, so he said, as a money pinata. I can get paid comfortably well to be employed for 56 hours a week as a stick. I swear I see more fraud in Boston than in Atlanta. I keep seeing awesome people on the internets take part in the Up-Goer 5 job description meme and hating myself for getting paid for something this thoroughly unspeakable and for enjoying it this much.
It is all weirdly, weirdly different environments, too. Quietjob, I am the demure (over)paid intern who gets patronised with monkeywork, pretending to enjoy the largely meaningless tasks when really I am just starting to appreciate that calm grey fogbank of numbers writ on paper; then I go over to bouncyjob and am suddenly the magical fixer of all things and catcher of balls dropped, sometimes from on high. I am also paid markedly less per hour, although my commission this week is so out-of-sight obscene I had totally given up on keeping track of it by Tuesday afternoon. I am not even yet sure how to quantify the Wednesday Thing, which is on West Broadway in Southie, where management is at loggerheads and Boston is showing me her bones. An older Peruvian coworker told me about being a child in Louisiana in the 60s and having to stand on the bus because she wasn't black and wasn't white. I listened to AA members engage in unsubtle codeswitching, played nice at a belligerent young widow, and I heard the harp busker on the way home; I don't even know, but I'm learning. I might be starting to get it.
oh fucking fuck it's 3am
I am too absorbed in processing all the numbers and things and people, and there's that theory that we sleep - we dream - in order to forget the minutiae of our waking days? I don't want to forget, or to lose time. This is not the XVIII any more. I want to hang on to all of them; the girl from Mississippi who's as happy as I am to be up here, the happy new father, the wanderer with the lisp and the unanswerable question about 1040NRs, the Obama fundraiser.
Especially the Obama fundraiser. because i don't need dystopic fiction.
I am so freaking tired that being able to sleep ought to be a gimme, but noooooo. Okay, so I jumped, inside three weeks, from being an unemployed loser to working a scheduled 56 hours a week for two different companies in three different places, and I am finding it hard to shift gears when I get home. That slithering shell of words won't go away. I've tried concoctions of cocoa, art, whiskey. I know what represents sleep and I can't reach it any more.
But I'm enjoying this? Knowing it's not forever helps, and at the same time keeps me on that pleasurable kismetic bender where I am thoroughly obsessed with how wrong everything is. I spent this evening looking up treasury regulations on wikipedia and reading a significant court judgement that contains the line 'Petitioners also owned books about ponies'. I am both hooked on this shit and also massively skeeved by it, legally, culturally and ethically. I keep thinking of that thing that guy said about the pre-recession years in Greece, when 'the lights were off' and everyone saw the government, so he said, as a money pinata. I can get paid comfortably well to be employed for 56 hours a week as a stick. I swear I see more fraud in Boston than in Atlanta. I keep seeing awesome people on the internets take part in the Up-Goer 5 job description meme and hating myself for getting paid for something this thoroughly unspeakable and for enjoying it this much.
It is all weirdly, weirdly different environments, too. Quietjob, I am the demure (over)paid intern who gets patronised with monkeywork, pretending to enjoy the largely meaningless tasks when really I am just starting to appreciate that calm grey fogbank of numbers writ on paper; then I go over to bouncyjob and am suddenly the magical fixer of all things and catcher of balls dropped, sometimes from on high. I am also paid markedly less per hour, although my commission this week is so out-of-sight obscene I had totally given up on keeping track of it by Tuesday afternoon. I am not even yet sure how to quantify the Wednesday Thing, which is on West Broadway in Southie, where management is at loggerheads and Boston is showing me her bones. An older Peruvian coworker told me about being a child in Louisiana in the 60s and having to stand on the bus because she wasn't black and wasn't white. I listened to AA members engage in unsubtle codeswitching, played nice at a belligerent young widow, and I heard the harp busker on the way home; I don't even know, but I'm learning. I might be starting to get it.
oh fucking fuck it's 3am
I am too absorbed in processing all the numbers and things and people, and there's that theory that we sleep - we dream - in order to forget the minutiae of our waking days? I don't want to forget, or to lose time. This is not the XVIII any more. I want to hang on to all of them; the girl from Mississippi who's as happy as I am to be up here, the happy new father, the wanderer with the lisp and the unanswerable question about 1040NRs, the Obama fundraiser.
Especially the Obama fundraiser. because i don't need dystopic fiction.