Me dad, back in the day, had this thing for trying out different 'low' jobs, for three reasons. One, he was curious and wanted to learn new skills; two because he then wrote articles about them and people he met and three, probably bit subconsciously, because he wanted to see what those who knew him would say/do. (He'd be a miner, a chimney sweep, etc...) One of such jobs was shining shoes at the train station. He told me that when his peers saw him, they'd smirk and talk down on him. He even tried being a beggar once and said he was called everything but human.
Someone from one of my previous lives came to my dollar store today. Someone well off, wearing very nice clothes, driving a new Audi, some legal clerk position in Brussels or something. Very nice hair, well maintained. They told me I looked better with a camera around my neck and if this is where I ended up?
Later, while sweeping the floor, my feet killing me, my pockets full of stray marbles and beads, I wondered, honestly, what do they think (I did not have the heart to tell them the truth), exactly, they have when they come to their house at the end of the day, that I should envy?
Do they have more books than me? More poetry? More notebooks FOR poetry? Better music? Better movies? Bigger and faster computer to play stupid video games that make them brainlessly happy? More lamps for their camera corner, a better camera? A bigger studio with more paints and canvases at a ready for the summer inspiration to come knocking? More inks and pigments and paper - the materials I favor to all others in the world? Is their dog dumber than mine and cats more retarded? Would I drink wine, do they think I would not have fine wine? Are my walls not set with art, my windows not large and bright enough, my floor not old wood enough and my ceilings not fifteen feet high enough?
Hm. Well. Maybe. Here is what awaits me at the end of each daily story, when I walk through the door. (Actually, the General has only failed once to 'surprise' pick me up from work and even then he stayed with me on the phone the whole time while I walked the long street, as if we live in fucking Beirut or something.) There is going to be dinner for me in the fridge and some bonus yummy on my work desk, candy or a cookie or my favorite yogurt or something. The deepest, clearest intelligent voice is going to ask me how my day was, tell me how his day was and we will talk about folly and philosophy, bullshit and politics and sexy nonsense. Largest, warmest hands will touch my face and hair and hands and the behemoth of a man, that massive blacksmith's body, a warrior farmer, will hold me and grab my boobs. He may read for an hour or so and I'll nap beside him, listening to the pages turn, and he'll caress my hair meanwhile, playing with my lashes and ears and collarbone. If he can restrain himself, we'll get to the bed and do fun things there, or he won't hold back and he'll just pound me brainless from behind on the sofa. We may watch a movie or play Warcraft or I'll write and he'll watch YouTube tutorials on how to bushcraft or make sharp weapons in an at-home shop.
Which part of this can be improved upon, mm? That a Brussels job and an expensive haircut would improve upon? A new Audi instead of an old Mitsubishi? High-heel shoes instead of hiking shoes? Pretty clothes instead of cargo pants and windbreaker? A vase of expensive flowers in the middle of the table as opposed to a shitload of crafting material piled on a desk? Tell me again what they have that I should envy so? They travel more? I traveled enough for three lifetimes. What beauty has their eyes caught that mine would not? Because I cannot think of three things I would want to change about my existence. And not two of those are achievable with a little bit of planning and a shitload of sunblock.
I am now certain - dad was right - dollar stores are good for the soul. :P
Someone from one of my previous lives came to my dollar store today. Someone well off, wearing very nice clothes, driving a new Audi, some legal clerk position in Brussels or something. Very nice hair, well maintained. They told me I looked better with a camera around my neck and if this is where I ended up?
Later, while sweeping the floor, my feet killing me, my pockets full of stray marbles and beads, I wondered, honestly, what do they think (I did not have the heart to tell them the truth), exactly, they have when they come to their house at the end of the day, that I should envy?
Do they have more books than me? More poetry? More notebooks FOR poetry? Better music? Better movies? Bigger and faster computer to play stupid video games that make them brainlessly happy? More lamps for their camera corner, a better camera? A bigger studio with more paints and canvases at a ready for the summer inspiration to come knocking? More inks and pigments and paper - the materials I favor to all others in the world? Is their dog dumber than mine and cats more retarded? Would I drink wine, do they think I would not have fine wine? Are my walls not set with art, my windows not large and bright enough, my floor not old wood enough and my ceilings not fifteen feet high enough?
Hm. Well. Maybe. Here is what awaits me at the end of each daily story, when I walk through the door. (Actually, the General has only failed once to 'surprise' pick me up from work and even then he stayed with me on the phone the whole time while I walked the long street, as if we live in fucking Beirut or something.) There is going to be dinner for me in the fridge and some bonus yummy on my work desk, candy or a cookie or my favorite yogurt or something. The deepest, clearest intelligent voice is going to ask me how my day was, tell me how his day was and we will talk about folly and philosophy, bullshit and politics and sexy nonsense. Largest, warmest hands will touch my face and hair and hands and the behemoth of a man, that massive blacksmith's body, a warrior farmer, will hold me and grab my boobs. He may read for an hour or so and I'll nap beside him, listening to the pages turn, and he'll caress my hair meanwhile, playing with my lashes and ears and collarbone. If he can restrain himself, we'll get to the bed and do fun things there, or he won't hold back and he'll just pound me brainless from behind on the sofa. We may watch a movie or play Warcraft or I'll write and he'll watch YouTube tutorials on how to bushcraft or make sharp weapons in an at-home shop.
Which part of this can be improved upon, mm? That a Brussels job and an expensive haircut would improve upon? A new Audi instead of an old Mitsubishi? High-heel shoes instead of hiking shoes? Pretty clothes instead of cargo pants and windbreaker? A vase of expensive flowers in the middle of the table as opposed to a shitload of crafting material piled on a desk? Tell me again what they have that I should envy so? They travel more? I traveled enough for three lifetimes. What beauty has their eyes caught that mine would not? Because I cannot think of three things I would want to change about my existence. And not two of those are achievable with a little bit of planning and a shitload of sunblock.
I am now certain - dad was right - dollar stores are good for the soul. :P
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