The Value of Work

For nearly two months now, I have been without employment. For the first week or so, I was given to certain existential crises, on account of my lack of activity and production. Then, I allowed myself to be free from the obligation of employment for a while (because I had enough money to keep me afloat also), and simply live life. I spent a lot of time reading and writing, and resting. I visited people, traveled a little, and spent some days in solitude in the woods. Now, of course, my funds have run out, and I am in need of employment. But not just any employment. Why does one even need a job? To pay the bills, yes. To occupy one's time, yes. But to fulfill one's purpose, of course not. If anything, I was most certainly being more purposeful and awakened to life's questions when I HAD all of that time to think and ponder.
One of the largest pitfalls of our society is our inability to SLOW DOWN. We are always operating at a breakneck speed, trying to fit in as many things as possible during each 24 hour stint. But what about rest? What about reflection? What about alone time? What about forgetting schedule and committment, and just throwing caution to the wind and going for a spontaneous bike ride through the city?
Today, I'm setting out to interview for two jobs: a group home company (just like my last job), and for Dunn Bros, a coffee shop that I adore. I am hoping that I will get these jobs, because I would enjoy them both so much, and I think that I would be good at both of them. I have waited quite a while, letting all those applications stew for a bit, even though it has been frustrating at times when NO ONE was calling back. Of course, I didn't want just ANY job to pay the bills, I wanted something that I would enjoy and be energized by and something that would make me excited. It's more than just a temp job to kill time before I run off to Americorps next January, it's something that I want to give my time to everyday and enjoy doing it in the process.
We all ought to question. . . .what is the nature of employment in our lives? I'm still not even sure.

Alcohol is a social lubricant. . .most definitely.

Jodi Struck's 21st birthday tonight can only be described by one word: PRICELESS. Not like those Mastercard commercials, but more like a vulgar but meaningful greeting card that's written in slurred language. . . .kinda like my thoughts tonight. I don't have that many drinks in me, really. I'm just tired, or so I'm telling myself.

On the way out from the bar (the Kitty Kat Klub, which is fabulous, if you haven't checked it out yet, in Dinkytown!) at like 11:30, I stopped to talk to the bouncer named Clint at the door. We talked for more than an hour. About everything. Tattoos, school, life without money, life with money, reading, working, living, and putting up with drunk assholes. It was one of the most random, but pleasant conversation that I've had in a long time. I almost thought about giving him my number (even though he was like 30, and not that cute. But who cares about looks anyway, if they have real personality and honest thoughts?), but I chickened out. Maybe I will next time I go to that club.

The moral of the story tonight is: Have more random talks with strangers. You might learn a whole heck of a lot, and meet someone new who is fabulous.

(I've gotta write on here more when I'm not so tired and slightly inebriated. Attempting to be deep after having alcohol is a lost cause.)

"Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself. . ."

Who even knows what that means? Sometimes I read Whitman as if he is really talking to me, as if he penned so many of those words right to me, to be read by my eyes; I like to think that his words were meant only for me. . .
One cannot conjure up the state of poetic emotion and thought, if only it were so easy to flip a switch and revert into such a pensive state. I drive along the snow-clotted streets late at night, nearly alone on Lake Street, smoking a cigarette as if it is the only thing to console me.

I often ask myself, "Why create?" Or, more specifically, "Why write?" What is it within me that compels to become the written word, which so easily and inconsequentially fall from my fingers on to the keyboard, hoping that some kind of enlightenment might come from pouring out this random semblance of phrases; does it mean anything?

I once read a quote from Sylvia Plath: "Why do I write?. . . . .I write because there is a voice within me that will not be still."

Restless voice of mine. . .

I am flooded with thoughts and reminiscences, not so contrived, as I drive or stand outside in the snow, but incidentally, they become stilted and trapped the moment that I attempt to sit down and actually write.
Somehow, to put a pen to a page and elaborate the confusion of almost-adulthood and the angst of post-college existence seems nearly impossible. . .
This path of self-discovery that so many of us find ourselves upon often becomes patronized and demeaned. . . .but I think that if we don't awaken to it well, something breaks and is lost forever.

None of this really even makes sense, even to my own mind, but I didn't expect it to make any sense. . .

Adventure in downtown Mpls.

Dabs (my roomie) and I decided to take a trip to the Sculpture Garden this morning, in hopes of sitting in the tropical warmth of the greenhouse to study. As a means of transportation and arduous exercise, we decided to bike there. I inquired to my housemate Mark as to which would be the quickest and safest bike route through downtown. His response was, "Follow the spirit, Mel. . .just follow the spirit." I suppose that meant the Sculpture Garden would call us to itself.

Alas, it did not.

Dabs and I found ourselves biking all the way up to North Minneapolis somehow, close to the house of my friends Andres and Victor. How we got up that far, I will never know. So, we had time to stop at an intriguing Ragstock location, and then find our way back through downtown yet again until we found streets that we recognized to take us back home.

Sad, it was, but also ironically hilarious. My thighs are still slightly burning from biking all of those miles, but it was worth it for an unexpectedly extended tour of downtown Minneapolis. . . .

Ahhh. . .unemployed life in the city. . . .

Read this. It's fabulous. Or at least I think sol

http://www.commondreams.org/views06/0305-27.htm