Making It New By The Pound

30 May

Making It New By The Pound

Making It New By The Pound

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Date: Thu, 30 May 1996 14:57:49
To: Ben Voos (in italics)

Hey Ben...

Dialing for synonyms has me spinning doughnuts around my memory.

Caught up in words they are. "work" means "making money" and free-time is meant to be for recreation. In Germany, in the mid-eighties, when unemployment was a popular dicussion, you heard of the "human right to work". This was twisty. I wonder, why people need someone to tell them what to work, they need some money thought. Well, I'd welcome NO WORK...

Yes. My wife's mother recently lectured her with this interpretation sharp on her peace-whittling tongue, and of course she was probing with ages-rich mother-in-law cynicism MY own blessed state of NO WORK. Meanwhile I indeed am blessed among men. My wife has been convinced finally (this month) I am best kept at home in the privacy of my mind and Dollhouse, her indifferent fingers but warm toasty heart. I admit I feel rather insecure anywhere else, but I drink myself into an exposion of the bickering myths of stratakulture every time I step out into the city of lights and theories of flight. I am rather, yes, busy making a contortionist's name for myself, or else in the minds of my critics, busy hiding names behind barstools and bushel baskets of cloudy arguments, you pick 'em, as they say in the sporting world of betting chances against the winds of great guffaw.

I work every waking moment. My wife complains that I cannot rest, which is only partially true, a fuzzy set, if you will. Fuzzy logic however is the grace the unequipped will never face, and for their ignorance they will perish with their lessening winds. My dreamstates are work, are tools, are just like being at the movies looking at somebody else's dreams but less jaundiced in more than a few cases. But back to the idea of work and money. My wife pays all the bills. She feels the burden of her job, but she brags about what it brings her in prestige and buying power of argument and guilt over the host of projects at our command, insecurity or not. If I bring in a dollar, I give it to somebody else, mostly her, or to the computer industry. I am an accomplice in the digital revolution, a footsoldier, an enlisted tattooed man, a homefront evangelizer as I peer beyond the garbage and confusion from my Dollhouse perch which serves me well.

Am I a hypocrite because I am aging, ugly and fat, conspiring to destroy faith in humanity's surge to crawl up from the tidal mud known as the Anti-Hip having been only to ultimately fail at being that dazzling, thin, strategically well-placed, well-pocketed and quasi-beautifully hip? The trickledown economies of Art and Finance are not dissimilar as to what Ezra Pound's crackling contentions and William Gaddis in The Recognitions have imparted.
Surrounded by mediocrity and predjudice, the greatest practitioners of liberal slander slither all around my eyes. My sockets burn sometimes with the urge to fly somewhere I can explode past meaning into the netherland of pure synchronicity. The rainy season meanwhile is driving all the Dolhouse area bugs inward, ants and cockroaches multiplying themselves and immigrating to my turf as if they "owned the joint". Fighting against the corruption of the material is the only fight worth dying for, but dying is a losing cause. I hate dying.

WORK IS ENERGY. Money is a contaminating conversion byproduct, safe only in proper prospective, because money corrupts everyone who gazes upon it. Opinions are always made about money. Even the most discrimating poor gaze upon it and are corrupted with envy and violence in strident persuasion to obtain it, or are saddled with an indifference that leads them into wretched arguments for obsessive compulsive choices as concrete as money ever was. Pure work frees man from the analysis of money. Am I a hypocrite for pointing this out? Am I a hypocrite because I love to spend money? Am I a hypocrite because I have argued successfully it seems to remain at home, supported by a woman who is hardly Artist or fraud? Am I a hypocrite because I am aging, ugly and fat, conspiring to destroy faith in humanity's surge to crawl up from the tidal mud known as the Anti-Hip having been only to ultimately fail at being that dazzling, thin, strategically well-placed, well-pocketed and quasi-beautifully hip? The trickledown economies of Art and Finance are not dissimilar as to what Ezra Pound's crackling contentions and William Gaddis in The Recognitions have imparted.

But people get occupied in a way, they forget to handle NO WORK. You know that, I suggest, but do you also know that contemplation, the force of passivity, I mean not producing, maybe on a journey? Oh, yes, you are a gardener, too. Many people have to work, to ease their artificial bad conscience.

But I work. I sweat. I struggle. I don't ask others to do for me what I'm unwilling to do for myself unless I am prepared to pay the going rate, or haggle along the hedges of a negotiating smile. Reckon I should forward you the original note Ben Voos wrote, not that the wires will become any less crossed when hung upon some aesthetic, despite what Ralph Waldo Emerson left in his own hefty will be done. By the sweat of one's brow. I still dig that motto.
If I say I am a writer, or a painter, am I less so because no iMote has called me up on the telephone to offer me a job or a contract? Am I any less a gardener if no one has offered to snap a polaroids of my roses or send me on an all-expense paid holiday to the Alpines to discuss breeding techniques? Does it matter whether I eat poorly like the beast I resemble, or whether I eat like a fat French chef buttering his own bread in Paris? The human right to work and the human right to be hip are not too far apart on the GT scale of irreducible tasks among so many and so stupid a population not only always electromagnetic & naked in the catbird seat, but snobbishly so...

But we, despite our best attempts to avoid/embrace these symptoms remain bunkered down in given ratios of human consumption or production, radix fuzzy but still redlining or drunk from the fountain of fair green frankincense, we also, succumb to the same pitfalls in one flavor or another as any other poke we like to feel superior and just a bit more enlightened than in comparison. Era of the dangling preposition, the unmangled unfangled proposition. We struggle against struggle not knowing how to slip the knot.

This right to work blood anthem as it's currently bandied about in the US is indeed best understood as some bestowable inheritance to a middle class lifestyle or bust. This is ridiculously presumptuous, debatably unrealistic, and most certainly unsustainable among a dysfunctional population such as ours.

Basically Ben, I feel most people want everything they think they can handle. Most of us don't know when to start OR stop wanting. The few who know the ropes either play them to bizarre circumstances or avoid/enjoy them with the greatest of relish. The rest of us argue ourselves into a double-edged niche, and so it becomes us, despite any makeshift theories to the contrary we or some other highly paid or dollar dead genius devises for us.

But Bob Blumstein has some paint on his birthday brush: As always arguing both sides of the fence isn't going to bring you to any conclusion of the issue. The answers are simple and abvious. Choose a direction or it will choose you (doing nothing is a direction as any mathematician can tell you on this plane of ideas). As the author of 'The Dumbing of America' pointed out on the Tom Snyder interview last night, 'We have become a nation of finger pointers' blaming everything and everyone but ourselves. If you like what you're doing continue. If money really matters that much, don't go into debt and burden everyone else with the default. Get a job, and spend only what you have, not what you expect (old English proverb). Self Control not Selfishness. Spinning gears and blaming the world is what Ayn Rand fought against, tooth and nail. Even Yoda the green mucous sage said 'There is no try, only do.'

Happy 36th Blumday! Did you go to work today? Birthday aches and pains hardly soothe the savage beast mouthing from the hip the guarded virtues of selfishness. May the shoes fit. Tales from the jackass rarely suit the prophet of no return, and so this "nooooooo work" question leaves me dry in the mouth just as does my own "self-indulgent" work leave most of you asphalt philosophers sprawled all around me wondering why I beg the question. The salty pooch of Len Bracken's Situationist rant is Bob Black's Zerowork Theory. But I work. I sweat. I struggle. I don't ask others to do for me what I'm unwilling to do for myself unless I am prepared to pay the going rate, or haggle along the hedges of a negotiating smile. Reckon I should forward you the original note Ben Voos wrote, not that the wires will become any less crossed when hung upon some aesthetic, despite what Ralph Waldo Emerson left in his own hefty will be done. By the sweat of one's brow. I still dig that motto.

By the way, if self-indulgence is such a gooey waste, whom do we then indulge? asks the phat raven of the shimmering mist. The shimmering mist replies, "Go bother somebody else. I'm busy."

GT

© 1996 - 2013, Gabriel Thy. All rights reserved.

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