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Bored and looking through my bookmarks from my old computer...
why oh why did i have to find this one?
why oh why did i have to find this one?
The sky is a liar in San Francisco, but it's more experienced than most of the beautiful liars here. I believe it for a second when I see the sunshine out my window. I have an office job now, which means I spend most of my daylight hours inside, completing small tasks that didn't have verbs twenty years ago. Emailing. Posting. Syncing. Pinging. Surfing the Web. Sometimes at meetings I take notes on paper, just for the novelty of it (but only if they've ordered the good pens).
I worry about this. I worry that after we've blown ourselves up the future-beings will find my bones. They'll find the bones of a carpenter too. They'll find his tools. Hammer, nail, saw. They'll see pictures of houses and know that the three went together. This person, used these, to make this, and that final thing met a fundamental human need. They'll find a cook, and a pan, and a knife and see pictures of food. This person, used these, to make this, and that final thing met a fundamental human need. Then they'll find me. They'll find me and my small plastic box with a long dead power supply. And they will be stumped. What does it do? What does he do? And why? This is my fear about the future. That my life will not make sense.
Ultimately, I suppose I'm worried that my life does not make sense now. I live in a city, built on land that the indians understood did not want to be lived on. The land, there, it tries to shake you off, they said, it gets angry that you are stepping on it. But we are not as smart as the indians, nor do we take no for an answer. What would white men do if there was nothing left to try and control?
I pay other people to make me food most nights of the week. Once every two weeks I pay a machine to wash my clothes. Once a month, I pay someone who I've never met for the priveledge of living in their building. I pay them before I've even lived there for the month. And yet I don't get paid until after I've done work. Hmm.
I'm getting off topic. I'm tired and distracted. I'm always tired and distracted. More disturbing than anything is that I'm happy here. I'm happy with my strange job and I'm happy paying for things I have lost the time or ability to do myself. I'm happy being tired and distracted. I'm happy that all thats expected of me is that I stare at a box all day and do things that there will be no proof of. It makes me feel like I've pulled one over on history. I win. At least, I think I win.
I worry about this. I worry that after we've blown ourselves up the future-beings will find my bones. They'll find the bones of a carpenter too. They'll find his tools. Hammer, nail, saw. They'll see pictures of houses and know that the three went together. This person, used these, to make this, and that final thing met a fundamental human need. They'll find a cook, and a pan, and a knife and see pictures of food. This person, used these, to make this, and that final thing met a fundamental human need. Then they'll find me. They'll find me and my small plastic box with a long dead power supply. And they will be stumped. What does it do? What does he do? And why? This is my fear about the future. That my life will not make sense.
Ultimately, I suppose I'm worried that my life does not make sense now. I live in a city, built on land that the indians understood did not want to be lived on. The land, there, it tries to shake you off, they said, it gets angry that you are stepping on it. But we are not as smart as the indians, nor do we take no for an answer. What would white men do if there was nothing left to try and control?
I pay other people to make me food most nights of the week. Once every two weeks I pay a machine to wash my clothes. Once a month, I pay someone who I've never met for the priveledge of living in their building. I pay them before I've even lived there for the month. And yet I don't get paid until after I've done work. Hmm.
I'm getting off topic. I'm tired and distracted. I'm always tired and distracted. More disturbing than anything is that I'm happy here. I'm happy with my strange job and I'm happy paying for things I have lost the time or ability to do myself. I'm happy being tired and distracted. I'm happy that all thats expected of me is that I stare at a box all day and do things that there will be no proof of. It makes me feel like I've pulled one over on history. I win. At least, I think I win.
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