Aya and I walk into the rug shop, for some reason. Pulled in by my own desire to touch and believe that one day I can own a 5K$ rug. Really want one. Meet the owners. There’s a beautiful green one. Really subtle colour palette for a rug. Gentle. Pistachio dye.
I walk out the door with it. Carry it out on my shoulder. I want it and now I’m sitting on it. Its my magic carpet. Its my meditation on surrendering myself to my own destiny.
I have been getting myself into a lock about claiming a career. About capitalizing on my skills. Finding a way to make a living. Bullshit. This is not what my generation is about. Capital is falling apart. Its bullshit. We don’t work for retirement, like our fathers did. We work for the vision. we work for the experience. We work because its the type of energy we want to be around. Otherwise we’d rather dumpster dive, work in a coffeeshop and make furniture out of cardboard. Because at least that’s honest. We would teach children but fear that the paperwork and bureacracy would hamstring our best intentions and turn us into hoarse robots watching the mutification of little soon to be robotlings.
I forgot that I was surrendering the whole career thing for the saturn return. I forgot but its good. Its good because this is exactly what sr is about: get true or get resistance. Face the internal resistance and fear or confront external barriers.
And I’ve been having a shitload of resistance. Blank. Not knowing where to go, where to put my energy, my passion. Only because I am afraid I won’t get results I can count on by doing this, by doing this whole experiment: committing to just following my gut, doing my visions before I die, risking being a fool.
Its much easier to say “I should just get an internship in marketing, and work my way up”. Up to what? Seriously? What in this world can I possibly work up to? A 2011 range rover? A mortgage payment? Selling more shit to more people that need to have less shit and focus on their families and their silently screaming souls instead of streaming corporate sitcoms onto the headrests of their escalades? Seriously?
My brand of poetry, the barefoot way my feet want to walk, may not be worth any money, may not be a job applicable skill, but this is me, this is the only true thing I know that is not some desire or fear indoctrinated into me by our billboard culture.
(Isn’t it funny that when its political its called ‘propaganda’, but if its ‘just for profit’ then its ‘just advertising’ and we don’t ascribe to it the connotation of nefarious manipulation that goes along with propaganda?)