Seeds planted in the duff
Forest leaves brushed aside
Turning brown to these eyes
Looking through the glass called I
Only the strong leave their seeds behind
To drift against fence posts
And tree stumps
Carried by the wind to distant rivers
By rivers to distant seas
To the bottom of the ocean
To the top of the mountain.
Fly on
Walk where you aren’t allowed
Go and don’t stop until you are home
Once you grow then the law means nothing
It's not pretty but it's beautiful
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
lexicon
In linguistics, the lexicon (from the Greek: Λεξικόν ) of a language is its vocabulary, including its words and expressions. More formally, it is a language's inventory of lexemes.
I thought of this word when rereading the following fragment I wrote...
"...building mini indestructible pyramids for Chinese pharaohs."
I think that breakdown led to a breakthrough. This little fragment represents an evolutionary jump in my writing. See, I wasn't trying to be poetic. I was just throwing down words that symbolize my imagination but the words came out sort of poetic. It's perfectly understandable and yet the words have never been used like this before. This, I think, is a writer's job: reinvent language. I've been toying with that pyramid/pharaoh image for years because I think we all agree the pyramids are a monumental waste of human resources and the pharaoh had no justification for building them...except that he had free labor and an insane belief in the afterlife.
So, to reapply those symbols to my own experiences has been a challenge and I think I finally pulled it off. It's a combination of words that has never been used before to communicate an idea that is familiar yet original. It's not gibberish, but it's not normal. It's grandiose, but I'm also talking about large scale manufacturing done by many for the benefit of the few, so it isn't totally inappropriate. The things I was building, by the way, will last longer than the pyramids and are polluting every element to death.
Anyway, I like it. "...Chinese Pharaohs." It's got a nice ring to it and I was working for a Chinese CEO so it's sort of true. It's an accusation and a denouncement without coming out and being crude. It's poetic and damning. Or I like to think it is. That's what being a writer means to me.
I thought of this word when rereading the following fragment I wrote...
"...building mini indestructible pyramids for Chinese pharaohs."
I think that breakdown led to a breakthrough. This little fragment represents an evolutionary jump in my writing. See, I wasn't trying to be poetic. I was just throwing down words that symbolize my imagination but the words came out sort of poetic. It's perfectly understandable and yet the words have never been used like this before. This, I think, is a writer's job: reinvent language. I've been toying with that pyramid/pharaoh image for years because I think we all agree the pyramids are a monumental waste of human resources and the pharaoh had no justification for building them...except that he had free labor and an insane belief in the afterlife.
So, to reapply those symbols to my own experiences has been a challenge and I think I finally pulled it off. It's a combination of words that has never been used before to communicate an idea that is familiar yet original. It's not gibberish, but it's not normal. It's grandiose, but I'm also talking about large scale manufacturing done by many for the benefit of the few, so it isn't totally inappropriate. The things I was building, by the way, will last longer than the pyramids and are polluting every element to death.
Anyway, I like it. "...Chinese Pharaohs." It's got a nice ring to it and I was working for a Chinese CEO so it's sort of true. It's an accusation and a denouncement without coming out and being crude. It's poetic and damning. Or I like to think it is. That's what being a writer means to me.
Terminated with Prejudice...
How else would this story end? Cyberdyne didn't just dismiss me, they did it in the most spineless way imaginable, using the temp agency as the hatchet man and inventing a story about insubordination to justify it.
Now, I'm an asshole in more ways than one. We all know this. You ask me to push a broom and I'll wonder why and extrapolate that simple act into a complicated constellation of philosophical means and ends and maxims and ethics that would make Nietzsche puke. But there is no way to get the whole story here. I can only explain myself and you, dear reader, will fill in the blanks. You already know about my resistance and trouble in that difficult procedure of applying the X to the bottom of the aluminum plate. What can I say? I have problems writing. The marker ran out of ink. I wasn't trained. I needed more time. SO many excuses and all useless.
But was that the problem that led to my termination? I'll never know. Was firing me the right thing to do, for everyone concerned? Of course. This was a marriage made in temp labor hell, right down to the mugshot ID tag that I will post eventually.
So many men have been down this road. I can say I hopped and jumped to please everyone, but that would sound pandering, and whiny. I can also say that I never did anything I wasn't asked to and hardly paid attention the entire time I was working there, instead dreaming of Mexico and Kerouac and music and women. And this would be partly true. Amazingly I managed to do the same amount of work as the people who did pay attention. They paid me for my hands, not my attention span. That costs more than minimum wage to rent.
Why I stayed as long as I did is testament to how badly I needed the money. But in the end, when you are faced with a difficult decision it is better to leave with your pride than be fired by lies. I didn't expect them to stoop so low but the fact they hired me was proof they are bottom feeders. No matter what, I knew the end was near and I allowed them to finish the play instead of taking the supervisor aside and asking for a different department. I know there was no other department so it would have been a dignified way of parting.
"No hard feelings. I'll turn in my badge."
A nice handshake. The chance to pick up my lunch bag.
But this leaves a nasty taste of bile in my throat. Getting the hatchet because they say I refused to do work, barely 15 minutes after clocking out and having my supervisor thank me for working on two special projects involving aluminum chips in rejected heat sinks.
"In fact," I told my temp boss in a lapse of philosophical equanimity, "That sounds like the exact opposite of what happened."
But that is hearsay as far as the general public is concerned. I'm black listed because Cyberdyne is the one writing the list. I will not say I wish I had done better work. I only wish I had left on my own.
Next time you talk on your cell phone and think what a wonderful device it is I want you to shove the phone up your ass and try walking around all day. Feel good? Well, that's what it takes to put that phone in your hand and make it work. And in the end the record will say you were defiant and not worth minimum wage. That grave we all have in our future will be cold and dark and have exactly zero network coverage...forever. So why the fuck can't we do without it for few years?
Disregard that last comment. It's Christmas! Time to be happy! Ho ho!
Now, I'm an asshole in more ways than one. We all know this. You ask me to push a broom and I'll wonder why and extrapolate that simple act into a complicated constellation of philosophical means and ends and maxims and ethics that would make Nietzsche puke. But there is no way to get the whole story here. I can only explain myself and you, dear reader, will fill in the blanks. You already know about my resistance and trouble in that difficult procedure of applying the X to the bottom of the aluminum plate. What can I say? I have problems writing. The marker ran out of ink. I wasn't trained. I needed more time. SO many excuses and all useless.
But was that the problem that led to my termination? I'll never know. Was firing me the right thing to do, for everyone concerned? Of course. This was a marriage made in temp labor hell, right down to the mugshot ID tag that I will post eventually.
So many men have been down this road. I can say I hopped and jumped to please everyone, but that would sound pandering, and whiny. I can also say that I never did anything I wasn't asked to and hardly paid attention the entire time I was working there, instead dreaming of Mexico and Kerouac and music and women. And this would be partly true. Amazingly I managed to do the same amount of work as the people who did pay attention. They paid me for my hands, not my attention span. That costs more than minimum wage to rent.
Why I stayed as long as I did is testament to how badly I needed the money. But in the end, when you are faced with a difficult decision it is better to leave with your pride than be fired by lies. I didn't expect them to stoop so low but the fact they hired me was proof they are bottom feeders. No matter what, I knew the end was near and I allowed them to finish the play instead of taking the supervisor aside and asking for a different department. I know there was no other department so it would have been a dignified way of parting.
"No hard feelings. I'll turn in my badge."
A nice handshake. The chance to pick up my lunch bag.
But this leaves a nasty taste of bile in my throat. Getting the hatchet because they say I refused to do work, barely 15 minutes after clocking out and having my supervisor thank me for working on two special projects involving aluminum chips in rejected heat sinks.
"In fact," I told my temp boss in a lapse of philosophical equanimity, "That sounds like the exact opposite of what happened."
But that is hearsay as far as the general public is concerned. I'm black listed because Cyberdyne is the one writing the list. I will not say I wish I had done better work. I only wish I had left on my own.
Next time you talk on your cell phone and think what a wonderful device it is I want you to shove the phone up your ass and try walking around all day. Feel good? Well, that's what it takes to put that phone in your hand and make it work. And in the end the record will say you were defiant and not worth minimum wage. That grave we all have in our future will be cold and dark and have exactly zero network coverage...forever. So why the fuck can't we do without it for few years?
Disregard that last comment. It's Christmas! Time to be happy! Ho ho!
Monday, December 21, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Going crazy...
This past week was a real test. They did kick down some overtime so it looks like I have some room to breathe. But it also means that I have to work.
This coming week I am going to try to concentrate on working. That sounds obvious but let me tell you that when you are baking aluminum bread it is hard to pay attention to the minor details like signing paperwork.
The real needle in the eye came when I was making these pieces and was supposed to write an X on the bottom left corner of the piece. I did this at the start...(God, this is petty to even mention) and then I put the piece on the oven. thirty minutes later I took the piece off and the X was gone. IT had been baked off with the epoxy. I did this many times and each time the X vanished. So I would reapply the X.
Now comes my opportunity to bitch about the pettiness that drives one to petty. See, the person who later was assigned to the second step of the process tells me to put the X on the bottom because he isn't seeing it. And the 50 year old ladies who have been there for 15+ years start talking out loud. Oh, god, my blood pressure must've been right beneath Aneurysm.
"He don't listen. None of 'em listen."
"Well...I..."
"Naw, I don't care! It's none of my business. I'm staying out of it. It ain't worth it! They don't care about the X. It don't matter to you but it matters to the next guy in line. But what do you care?"
I don't say anything. I just stare at her. I give her the Robert Diniro stare.
She says, "I'm staying out of it! It ain't worth bothering myself about. You can't teach something if a guy doesn't want to learn. Put the X, don't put the X. What do I care? They don't want to put the X on."
This last part kills me. Instead of just a forgetful mouth breather, I suddenly become a villain. I didn't want to put the X on. Like I've been plotting this at home for weeks. I will fuck up the whole process ON PURPOSE! I sabotage the assembly because I'm evil! But...see...I...oh, Jesus take me!
This goes on for minutes. Three old women just shaking their heads that I can't remember to put the X on the bottom of the piece of aluminum even though I have been putting the X on but it gets baked off.
I have a familiar feeling that I have felt many times, most of all when I was working on the merchant vessels. In order to continue this conversation I will have to defend myself. But to defend myself means I will say, "I put the X on, but it bakes off during the thirty minutes at 250 degrees. It disappears." And this statement, as true as it is, is so petty and unsophisticated that I can not bring myself to utter it. But to listen to this old woman yap like a hen on crystal meth is intolerable. But I need the job. If I had any pride at all I would just walk out. There is no need so great as to demand listening for ten or twenty minutes as a woman ignorantly accuses me of something that isn't true. But to quit my job, a job that pays real money, because this nameless woman is having a fit about this phantom error is EQUALLY AS PETTY. I swear, the Dali Lama has got it easy. He trucks around the globe with a fancy entourage whining about China stealing Tibet. People kiss his ass and he smiles all the time. What a happy guy, he is. Yeah? Why the fuck shouldn't he be happy? I'd like to see his face when they put the hot irons on his feet. Would he be happy then? Hey, Dali, let's trade places for a week or two!
I'm right on the verge of a breakdown. I'm not angry at all, I'm just struck by how utterly insane this whole situation is, baking aluminum high tech shit for 15 years, building mini indestructible pyramids for Chinese pharaohs. and during this insane process there is an equally insane mini drama that has to do with an X, a single letter, that I write on the bottom of these mini-pyramids that disappears in the baking process and now everyone is accusing me of forgetting to put on in the first place, even intentionally neglecting to put it on because I'm a bad team player. This is why people go crazy. They are completely serious that this is a major offense and I am completely certain that it doesn't even exist, that the process is destroying the X. But to explain myself is to sink to a level beneath a slave. First of all, I will have to write the X on and demonstrate that the X disappears. It will involve everyone gathering around the piece as I take it off the hot plate. I almost gag thinking about that scene, the women and men looking for an X on the bottom of the aluminum as a conveyor belt and ovens and pallet jacks thunder past in this industrial landscape. Second of all they will still say that I forgot on the other ones when actually I just stopped writing the X on because it made no difference. I knew it would bake off. So now I'm going to start writing the X on and then it will disappear and they will write it back on. IT's no solution.
But most importantly, what the fuck have I gained by this demonstration? I may vindicate myself to the placement of this magic marker X that is not permanent past 250 degrees of direct heat. But I will have lost some shred of respect for my worldview and philosophy which detests the cultivation of petty complaints. I should leave.
But I need the money. I can't leave and I won't defend myself. And I can't make the X stay on the aluminum. This is factory work. It isn't worth any amount of money and yet most of the world does it without complaint. But I am not most of the world. To even write about it makes me queasy but I have to get it out and move on. OR if I end up in an asylum and you hear me muttering, "I put the X on. I put it on! It got baked off." then you will understand.
Later on, a guy comes over to me.
"Oggy, You seem, pre-occupied."
"I got the weight of the world on me."
This is vague, and funny because the weight refers to a nonexistent letter, but I don't want to get into specifics.
"See, I don't let that bother me. After 12 years in jail, my parents died, my sister died, my wife left with my kid. Now I'm out and I get to look at nice asses, make some money. Listen to music."
I stop grinding my teeth a little bit. I realize that his time in jail, as unseemly as it might be, actually gave him insight into psychopathic expressions, and I have brought this back to him. Thank you, Cyberdyne.
"It's all getting under my skin."
"Hey, don't sweat it. In jail we said inch by inch, life's a cinch. Yard by yard, life is hard."
"What's that mean?"
"Think about it."
He walks away past a younger female worker with tight jeans.
"You got a nice ass. I bet you fuck good."
"Go on! Pig."
But she ways it with a smile.
They have that kind of relationship.
So I'm trying to take it inch by inch.
But I swear I put the X on the bottom. I swear!
This coming week I am going to try to concentrate on working. That sounds obvious but let me tell you that when you are baking aluminum bread it is hard to pay attention to the minor details like signing paperwork.
The real needle in the eye came when I was making these pieces and was supposed to write an X on the bottom left corner of the piece. I did this at the start...(God, this is petty to even mention) and then I put the piece on the oven. thirty minutes later I took the piece off and the X was gone. IT had been baked off with the epoxy. I did this many times and each time the X vanished. So I would reapply the X.
Now comes my opportunity to bitch about the pettiness that drives one to petty. See, the person who later was assigned to the second step of the process tells me to put the X on the bottom because he isn't seeing it. And the 50 year old ladies who have been there for 15+ years start talking out loud. Oh, god, my blood pressure must've been right beneath Aneurysm.
"He don't listen. None of 'em listen."
"Well...I..."
"Naw, I don't care! It's none of my business. I'm staying out of it. It ain't worth it! They don't care about the X. It don't matter to you but it matters to the next guy in line. But what do you care?"
I don't say anything. I just stare at her. I give her the Robert Diniro stare.
She says, "I'm staying out of it! It ain't worth bothering myself about. You can't teach something if a guy doesn't want to learn. Put the X, don't put the X. What do I care? They don't want to put the X on."
This last part kills me. Instead of just a forgetful mouth breather, I suddenly become a villain. I didn't want to put the X on. Like I've been plotting this at home for weeks. I will fuck up the whole process ON PURPOSE! I sabotage the assembly because I'm evil! But...see...I...oh, Jesus take me!
This goes on for minutes. Three old women just shaking their heads that I can't remember to put the X on the bottom of the piece of aluminum even though I have been putting the X on but it gets baked off.
I have a familiar feeling that I have felt many times, most of all when I was working on the merchant vessels. In order to continue this conversation I will have to defend myself. But to defend myself means I will say, "I put the X on, but it bakes off during the thirty minutes at 250 degrees. It disappears." And this statement, as true as it is, is so petty and unsophisticated that I can not bring myself to utter it. But to listen to this old woman yap like a hen on crystal meth is intolerable. But I need the job. If I had any pride at all I would just walk out. There is no need so great as to demand listening for ten or twenty minutes as a woman ignorantly accuses me of something that isn't true. But to quit my job, a job that pays real money, because this nameless woman is having a fit about this phantom error is EQUALLY AS PETTY. I swear, the Dali Lama has got it easy. He trucks around the globe with a fancy entourage whining about China stealing Tibet. People kiss his ass and he smiles all the time. What a happy guy, he is. Yeah? Why the fuck shouldn't he be happy? I'd like to see his face when they put the hot irons on his feet. Would he be happy then? Hey, Dali, let's trade places for a week or two!
I'm right on the verge of a breakdown. I'm not angry at all, I'm just struck by how utterly insane this whole situation is, baking aluminum high tech shit for 15 years, building mini indestructible pyramids for Chinese pharaohs. and during this insane process there is an equally insane mini drama that has to do with an X, a single letter, that I write on the bottom of these mini-pyramids that disappears in the baking process and now everyone is accusing me of forgetting to put on in the first place, even intentionally neglecting to put it on because I'm a bad team player. This is why people go crazy. They are completely serious that this is a major offense and I am completely certain that it doesn't even exist, that the process is destroying the X. But to explain myself is to sink to a level beneath a slave. First of all, I will have to write the X on and demonstrate that the X disappears. It will involve everyone gathering around the piece as I take it off the hot plate. I almost gag thinking about that scene, the women and men looking for an X on the bottom of the aluminum as a conveyor belt and ovens and pallet jacks thunder past in this industrial landscape. Second of all they will still say that I forgot on the other ones when actually I just stopped writing the X on because it made no difference. I knew it would bake off. So now I'm going to start writing the X on and then it will disappear and they will write it back on. IT's no solution.
But most importantly, what the fuck have I gained by this demonstration? I may vindicate myself to the placement of this magic marker X that is not permanent past 250 degrees of direct heat. But I will have lost some shred of respect for my worldview and philosophy which detests the cultivation of petty complaints. I should leave.
But I need the money. I can't leave and I won't defend myself. And I can't make the X stay on the aluminum. This is factory work. It isn't worth any amount of money and yet most of the world does it without complaint. But I am not most of the world. To even write about it makes me queasy but I have to get it out and move on. OR if I end up in an asylum and you hear me muttering, "I put the X on. I put it on! It got baked off." then you will understand.
Later on, a guy comes over to me.
"Oggy, You seem, pre-occupied."
"I got the weight of the world on me."
This is vague, and funny because the weight refers to a nonexistent letter, but I don't want to get into specifics.
"See, I don't let that bother me. After 12 years in jail, my parents died, my sister died, my wife left with my kid. Now I'm out and I get to look at nice asses, make some money. Listen to music."
I stop grinding my teeth a little bit. I realize that his time in jail, as unseemly as it might be, actually gave him insight into psychopathic expressions, and I have brought this back to him. Thank you, Cyberdyne.
"It's all getting under my skin."
"Hey, don't sweat it. In jail we said inch by inch, life's a cinch. Yard by yard, life is hard."
"What's that mean?"
"Think about it."
He walks away past a younger female worker with tight jeans.
"You got a nice ass. I bet you fuck good."
"Go on! Pig."
But she ways it with a smile.
They have that kind of relationship.
So I'm trying to take it inch by inch.
But I swear I put the X on the bottom. I swear!
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