In this life there are people who may be unable to understand you or what it is your trying to accomplish, and how you go about getting there. There are people who may be disrespectful toward you, or worse. If your paths have crossed by some intended accident, and you have had a good run at it as friends, well, your run may have run out. When the end comes we can feel lost and confused, hurt and resentful, misunderstood. Some things were not built to last. When I am by myself in the quiet and calm of my home, I try and think of the best times I had with anybody like that. Then, if I am still hurting by another air raid from bombs dropped on my head, I try and remember who I am and why other people seem to love me through it all, this life, while some cannot and never will and that is how it goes. If I find the need to untangle the elusive truth of any matter -- to settle it once and for all so my mind can rest -- I can walk myself through what happened and focus not on what was said between us but what was done. And there may I find anything approaching the truth, for normal self-seeking prejudice and pride can neither stand up to the evidence before me then. Feelings cannot discolor facts. And I can only hope that I took right action, for we search ourselves at risk! You cannot escape your behavior. It is a humbling experience to lose friends, for sure, and everyone will go through it and most of us will go through it many times over. If you find yourself malicious with words, it is a good idea to go silent.
Today I came into the dawn with one less hand to hold. Troubling words were exchanged over the course of recent weeks which left me lost and confused. I saw the turmoil of my emotions and how I gave voice to many troubling feelings and it was not always pretty. Last night I spent with close friends I have known for over twenty years, who were in town from Chicago with their young son and daughter. They camped in my backyard. I introduced the three year old to Lucky Charms, and now he cannot get enough. I was fortunate to hold a child on my knee. Then we said goodbye and I was back on my own. I had already gone silent on the dead sea of dead ends, because all I had to say anymore was selfish and useless. Instead I prayed for relief from that pain in my heart. And I took the risk. Then I took a long afternoon nap, and it was restful. And I woke up and sat up from bed and was scared coming back into the world without that old hand to hold. But a calm came over my spirit like no other! For I have been true. I have been true!
Showing posts with label inventory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label inventory. Show all posts
Monday, 27 July 2015
Monday, 6 April 2015
The tragic fate of an object
Someone hand-crafted a special toy for a child once. The child was very pleased with this gift. Someone saw this toy and thought every kid should have one. Someone heard the idea. An ear got cornered and could not escape. Someone believed every kid could have one, after all. The craftsman was party to a meeting. A discussion was had. The craftsman felt proud and honored, and could use some pennies. He was almost penniless with big ideas and a small family needed supporting.
Everyone stood to benefit. A plan was drafted. The craftsman got to work. The orders came in. The kids were delighted. The objects were full of love and good energy. The businessman worked hard to spread the word. Inventory became important. Accounting became important. The books grew. The craftsman was getting tired. The numbers grew. The kids were delighted. They wanted more. The craftsman hired within his family and moved to a larger space. The landlord shook hands. The craftsman's wife slept alone. She made roasts and pies. She encouraged her husband to sleep and eat, and come home.
The family operation grew. The objects were gems. The kids around the world were delighted. The craftsmanship was quality. The businessman had larger ventures in mind. He saw the craftsman's craft as his bread and butter, his cash cow. He pressed for larger operations, and signed a few larger orders behind the craftsman's back. The craftsman shrugged his shoulders. There were bags under his eyes. He knew not what to do with the money. Investment advisors came to roost. They rang the doorbell and bothered his wife. They tried to intercept him at work and home, and out upon the town. They succeeded.
The tax man came a knocking. The kids were delighted. The bed was untouched. The wife felt like someone had died. The craftsman was proud and exhausted. Contracts running through his mind. He kept to his craft. He taught others. He was the master. His apprentices lorded over new charges. Outside the family. New digs. New operations. The businessman was wearing fine leathers and silks. His office overlooked central park. His bank account kept growing. He found politicians friendly toward his big idea ventures. He funded their campaigns and they took office. Architects and Tax attorneys and local celebrities paid him visits. New ventures were seeded.
One day the craftsman was too tired and getting sick. He retired and left his craft for his best apprentices to carry out. The spirit carried over for some time. But corners were cut. Some people worked to make money, and with the money hoped to start their own ideas going. The objects of art and master craft, became victim to mass production. Every one seemed the same. Some of the moving parts were made immobile, for the sake of saving time and money. The orders were relentless overseas. No one seemed to notice the sacrifice. Which encouraged more cost cutting. The brand was plastered over half the world. Everyone stood behind it. Everyone. The discrepancy in craftsmanship was overlooked. No one knew the mastercraftsman had no part in the craft anymore, other than the mastercraftsman, his wife and his family. All that mattered was the seal of the brand. The insignia.
The kids were no longer delighted. The objects were no longer sacred. The cost of the item was less. The value of the item was also less. You could buy it any store. Kids showed off their new objects to careless eyes. Everyone knew about that. Some had the same. Some had bought it in the same store. The objects were put next to the bottlecaps and pet rocks and one shelf beneath the treasured dolls and sea glass and family heirlooms passed down. Still, the objects kept coming, and the adults who were not yet in touch with the kids, kept buying and giving the dull things off as gifts.
The kids accepted objects with weak smiles fronting disappointed eyes and care less feelings. They soon decided to make new use of the objects. Turns out Cherry Bombs could really blow these fuckers up good!!
Everyone stood to benefit. A plan was drafted. The craftsman got to work. The orders came in. The kids were delighted. The objects were full of love and good energy. The businessman worked hard to spread the word. Inventory became important. Accounting became important. The books grew. The craftsman was getting tired. The numbers grew. The kids were delighted. They wanted more. The craftsman hired within his family and moved to a larger space. The landlord shook hands. The craftsman's wife slept alone. She made roasts and pies. She encouraged her husband to sleep and eat, and come home.
The family operation grew. The objects were gems. The kids around the world were delighted. The craftsmanship was quality. The businessman had larger ventures in mind. He saw the craftsman's craft as his bread and butter, his cash cow. He pressed for larger operations, and signed a few larger orders behind the craftsman's back. The craftsman shrugged his shoulders. There were bags under his eyes. He knew not what to do with the money. Investment advisors came to roost. They rang the doorbell and bothered his wife. They tried to intercept him at work and home, and out upon the town. They succeeded.
The tax man came a knocking. The kids were delighted. The bed was untouched. The wife felt like someone had died. The craftsman was proud and exhausted. Contracts running through his mind. He kept to his craft. He taught others. He was the master. His apprentices lorded over new charges. Outside the family. New digs. New operations. The businessman was wearing fine leathers and silks. His office overlooked central park. His bank account kept growing. He found politicians friendly toward his big idea ventures. He funded their campaigns and they took office. Architects and Tax attorneys and local celebrities paid him visits. New ventures were seeded.
One day the craftsman was too tired and getting sick. He retired and left his craft for his best apprentices to carry out. The spirit carried over for some time. But corners were cut. Some people worked to make money, and with the money hoped to start their own ideas going. The objects of art and master craft, became victim to mass production. Every one seemed the same. Some of the moving parts were made immobile, for the sake of saving time and money. The orders were relentless overseas. No one seemed to notice the sacrifice. Which encouraged more cost cutting. The brand was plastered over half the world. Everyone stood behind it. Everyone. The discrepancy in craftsmanship was overlooked. No one knew the mastercraftsman had no part in the craft anymore, other than the mastercraftsman, his wife and his family. All that mattered was the seal of the brand. The insignia.
The kids were no longer delighted. The objects were no longer sacred. The cost of the item was less. The value of the item was also less. You could buy it any store. Kids showed off their new objects to careless eyes. Everyone knew about that. Some had the same. Some had bought it in the same store. The objects were put next to the bottlecaps and pet rocks and one shelf beneath the treasured dolls and sea glass and family heirlooms passed down. Still, the objects kept coming, and the adults who were not yet in touch with the kids, kept buying and giving the dull things off as gifts.
The kids accepted objects with weak smiles fronting disappointed eyes and care less feelings. They soon decided to make new use of the objects. Turns out Cherry Bombs could really blow these fuckers up good!!
Friday, 18 November 2011
Citizen # K (subsection A)
Imagine, walking around all day behind Citizen #K
She got the tempwork off some market app on her smartphone. Yeah. Probably play was where she shopped. Right after coldcuts cooked in a rice cooker with just a bit of olive oil... okay, water will suffice because we have no olive oil no stovetop no facilities and no mind after it all. Call it the redeeming virtue of the conscious woman today. She has a nose for inventory. She will arrive the very day the prime rib and the leftover Alaskan king crab legs are let go. She catches the loaves of bread on MLK. She flaunts her strategic coverage of the most coveted recyclables. Okay she dumpster dives like a champ. Lets repeat it, Jim, and this time notch up or two the amp.
All she had to do was provide electronic signatures on top of her email address and the # of her phone. She could talk however she wanted, with false accents or simply drooling monotone. She figured minimal interaction with the world might stem her heavy feeling of being truly alone. Sure, she might never look her authority in the eyes, or meet coworkers for calzones or talk in escalated excitement of motivational capitalist ideology.
Girls were almost expected at times to jump into falsetto, she remembered, having been a corporate slug for a horrible epoch in her twenties. She saw the stressed out blood green ghost on the sixth and seventh chords strike out from the roots of her beautiful long dishevelled hair.
She found herself, she did. Post some toilet paper diploma bricking up the fast food management scene, headed toward airports and rental limousines. That was when her head fell in love with a bicycle she saw being pedaled by a young woman not unllike herself in age and carriage. Among all the industrious nonsense and heavy sounds of friction between metals and vacuum sucking and air pushing machine breath. Among all the crap that was baseline for any goddamn capitalist monster of a dream. Starfux takes no prisoners. Show up like soldiers, wear your uniform. Shine your teeth for the smile. Do not clock out late or dare stay a while.
She fell out just in the knick of time. Shook off the seduction of quarterly sales dinners and napa valley small batch merlots and pinot noir to polish you off and cast a vineyard cover of night over your dissipating understanding of hell on earth within the context of a six figure salary and hardly time to sleep off the corporate burn off of the true yearning for rat race recidivism rates skyrocketing and She turned over lots of her understanding to the phone. The phone now told her the time. Not the sun. The phone oriented her with its cool hd compass. She no longer learned how to get out of getting lost.
She got the tempwork off some market app on her smartphone. Yeah. Probably play was where she shopped. Right after coldcuts cooked in a rice cooker with just a bit of olive oil... okay, water will suffice because we have no olive oil no stovetop no facilities and no mind after it all. Call it the redeeming virtue of the conscious woman today. She has a nose for inventory. She will arrive the very day the prime rib and the leftover Alaskan king crab legs are let go. She catches the loaves of bread on MLK. She flaunts her strategic coverage of the most coveted recyclables. Okay she dumpster dives like a champ. Lets repeat it, Jim, and this time notch up or two the amp.
All she had to do was provide electronic signatures on top of her email address and the # of her phone. She could talk however she wanted, with false accents or simply drooling monotone. She figured minimal interaction with the world might stem her heavy feeling of being truly alone. Sure, she might never look her authority in the eyes, or meet coworkers for calzones or talk in escalated excitement of motivational capitalist ideology.
Girls were almost expected at times to jump into falsetto, she remembered, having been a corporate slug for a horrible epoch in her twenties. She saw the stressed out blood green ghost on the sixth and seventh chords strike out from the roots of her beautiful long dishevelled hair.
She found herself, she did. Post some toilet paper diploma bricking up the fast food management scene, headed toward airports and rental limousines. That was when her head fell in love with a bicycle she saw being pedaled by a young woman not unllike herself in age and carriage. Among all the industrious nonsense and heavy sounds of friction between metals and vacuum sucking and air pushing machine breath. Among all the crap that was baseline for any goddamn capitalist monster of a dream. Starfux takes no prisoners. Show up like soldiers, wear your uniform. Shine your teeth for the smile. Do not clock out late or dare stay a while.
She fell out just in the knick of time. Shook off the seduction of quarterly sales dinners and napa valley small batch merlots and pinot noir to polish you off and cast a vineyard cover of night over your dissipating understanding of hell on earth within the context of a six figure salary and hardly time to sleep off the corporate burn off of the true yearning for rat race recidivism rates skyrocketing and She turned over lots of her understanding to the phone. The phone now told her the time. Not the sun. The phone oriented her with its cool hd compass. She no longer learned how to get out of getting lost.
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