July 8, 2009
Slacker's Manifesto
From the period of time when man first domesticated animals and figured out how to plant simple crops to the time of the industrial revolution, existence was hard. Unless you were a member of the elite class (the nobility, the clergy) you had little free time, and in fact, little free will. Most of you existence was spent in furthering that existence. Men would work in fields all day, their only rest to come at night, and women labored on domestic concerns. The industrial revolution changed that to a point, but for the most part labor and life were divided between the haves and the have-nots. I think a crucial turning point was Henry Ford. This visionary changed life, as we know it. When we think of Ford, we think of a high-quality automobile, but that’s not all Ford did for us. Ford created the assembly line, forging us into the era of mass production, but more importantly, he created the middle class. For the first time, a large group of people existed who were neither slaves nor masters. As a direct consequence of this, many people finally had free time, and free will followed. The majority of the people were finally afforded other opportunities other than living for the continuation of that life. Culture became prevalent, finally the masses could read good books, or see a movie on a day off. Most importantly though, it was not what you could do, but what needed not be done that rose to the forefront. Slacking finally became possible without fear of death. Since slacking is a relatively new “art,” it is not fully perfected. One cannot believe that they have reached a zenith in slacking; we as a culture have been doing it for a little less than a hundred years. I however, do believe there will be further visionaries in the field of slacking, a Plato and Aristotle of slacking if you’ll allow me. I do not know who these people will be, but I hope to be one of the first to acknowledge the art of slacking, and I pray that someday, thousands of years from now, some scholar will translate my works into their language, and ponder just how culturally relevant my thoughts are. I however am less concerned about the future. In the here in now is where I live, and it is too where I will finally attempt to bring slacking into the minds of men. Wish me luck, and may you too, transcend all known boundaries in the art of slacking.
On a story about a guy writing a story.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way- in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
No, that has too much of an essence to it. I don’t like it, I can write something better. In fact, I feel that today I can write a far, far better opening than I have ever written before.
Try Again, John.
When Gregor Samsa awoke from troubled dreams one morning, he found that he had been transformed in his bed into an enormous bug. He lay on his back, which was hard as armor, and when he lifted his head a little, he saw his belly – rounded, brown, partitioned by archlike ridges – on top of which the blanket, ready to slip off all together, was just barely perched. His numerous legs, pitifully thin in comparison to the rest of his girth, flickered helplessly before his eyes.
Damnit, that’s just too weird. That would never get published. Who turns into a bug anyways? That lacks certain credibility. Maybe I could turn that into some sort of allegory about modernity. No, I could never pull that off. I like the weird angle though, what can I do about that. Maybe I’ll write something, where the human stays human.
Listen:
Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time. Billy has gone to sleep a senile widower and awakened on his wedding day. He has walked through a door in 1955 and come out another one in 1941. He has gone back through that door to find himself in 1963. He has seen his birth and death many times, he says, and pays random visits to all events in between.
Whoa. Maybe acid is not the best drug to abuse when you need a clever story line. It works for the late nights working on the Enquirer, but I want to be a real writer, not a forth-rate hack writing for a trash magazine picked up by old ladies with far too many cats. What will be my legacy? Maybe poetry. I liked poetry in college.
I was by the shadow of the waxwing slain
By the false azure in the windowpane;
I was the smudge of ashen fluff – and I
Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky.
And from the inside too, I’d duplicate
Myself, my lamp, an apple on a plate:
Uncurtaining the night, I’d let dark glass
Hang all the furniture above the grass,
And how delightful when a fall of snow
Covered my Glimpse of lawn and reached up so
As to make chair and bed exactly stand
Upon that snow, out in that crystal land.
I don’ know, I’m not a poet. I need to think of my motivation. My job keeps me in the minor luxuries that I could ask for, and there is nothing to be wanted in my love life…It was that telegram that got me thinking about posterity, about my legacy. Maybe I could write about that.
Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don’t know. I got a telegram from the home: “Mother deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Faithfully Yours.” That doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday.
No, no, I can’t write about her yet, it is too soon. I just fall into writing like a second-grader, and that will never establish me as a literary force. I want to be remembered for ages, as the greatest writer that (Who?) ever lived! Hahahahaha.
Or maybe, I’ll just keep the job. The world needs to know about batboy and the other curiosities that abound in the world. It just leaved me empty inside, and I cannot look my friends from college in the face if we were ever to run into each other again. Maybe this is just my fate, and it is true that …
I am a sick man…I am a wicked man.
Oh, shit, I think I have it; I can be the Misanthrope of my age? Who better to chronicle our generation than one who knows the total underbelly of society? Maybe my job could pay some dividends. All right, now all I need is a plot.
Thanks/Sorry
Camus
Vonnegut
Kafka
Nabokov
Dickens
Dostoevsky
No, that has too much of an essence to it. I don’t like it, I can write something better. In fact, I feel that today I can write a far, far better opening than I have ever written before.
Try Again, John.
When Gregor Samsa awoke from troubled dreams one morning, he found that he had been transformed in his bed into an enormous bug. He lay on his back, which was hard as armor, and when he lifted his head a little, he saw his belly – rounded, brown, partitioned by archlike ridges – on top of which the blanket, ready to slip off all together, was just barely perched. His numerous legs, pitifully thin in comparison to the rest of his girth, flickered helplessly before his eyes.
Damnit, that’s just too weird. That would never get published. Who turns into a bug anyways? That lacks certain credibility. Maybe I could turn that into some sort of allegory about modernity. No, I could never pull that off. I like the weird angle though, what can I do about that. Maybe I’ll write something, where the human stays human.
Listen:
Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time. Billy has gone to sleep a senile widower and awakened on his wedding day. He has walked through a door in 1955 and come out another one in 1941. He has gone back through that door to find himself in 1963. He has seen his birth and death many times, he says, and pays random visits to all events in between.
Whoa. Maybe acid is not the best drug to abuse when you need a clever story line. It works for the late nights working on the Enquirer, but I want to be a real writer, not a forth-rate hack writing for a trash magazine picked up by old ladies with far too many cats. What will be my legacy? Maybe poetry. I liked poetry in college.
I was by the shadow of the waxwing slain
By the false azure in the windowpane;
I was the smudge of ashen fluff – and I
Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky.
And from the inside too, I’d duplicate
Myself, my lamp, an apple on a plate:
Uncurtaining the night, I’d let dark glass
Hang all the furniture above the grass,
And how delightful when a fall of snow
Covered my Glimpse of lawn and reached up so
As to make chair and bed exactly stand
Upon that snow, out in that crystal land.
I don’ know, I’m not a poet. I need to think of my motivation. My job keeps me in the minor luxuries that I could ask for, and there is nothing to be wanted in my love life…It was that telegram that got me thinking about posterity, about my legacy. Maybe I could write about that.
Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don’t know. I got a telegram from the home: “Mother deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Faithfully Yours.” That doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday.
No, no, I can’t write about her yet, it is too soon. I just fall into writing like a second-grader, and that will never establish me as a literary force. I want to be remembered for ages, as the greatest writer that (Who?) ever lived! Hahahahaha.
Or maybe, I’ll just keep the job. The world needs to know about batboy and the other curiosities that abound in the world. It just leaved me empty inside, and I cannot look my friends from college in the face if we were ever to run into each other again. Maybe this is just my fate, and it is true that …
I am a sick man…I am a wicked man.
Oh, shit, I think I have it; I can be the Misanthrope of my age? Who better to chronicle our generation than one who knows the total underbelly of society? Maybe my job could pay some dividends. All right, now all I need is a plot.
Thanks/Sorry
Camus
Vonnegut
Kafka
Nabokov
Dickens
Dostoevsky
At the Reading
I sat down at a large table off to the side. I was earlier than most, but I did not want to intrude. I sat down alone, but I took off my hat as a gesture of curtsy for those that would become unfortunate enough to be seated behind me. I sat alone, even though there were plenty people that had already filtered in that I recognized, with whom I had some sort of fleeting kinship with at one time or another.
I stared off into space, thinking of the background. Books upon books upon books stared back at me. I could not look them in the eyes. I lowered my gaze to the table. The table was large and full of stately feel. I did not know if the table was old, or merely made to look that way. The chair had that same strange anachronistic feel. It was heavy, devoid of cloth or leather, yet comfortable. They were antiques updated to the age of ergonomics.
I felt the heavy wood and noticed that the reading had started. I looked at the reader, and tried to focus. I noted again that I needed glasses. I thought that it was a shame that other bills would have to be paid before I could regain full control of my sight. The reader merged with the books, or the books merged with the reader. I was uncertain which was true. They both looked at me, and they both looked far away, to another place and time that I could not comprehend. I thought of hippies and radicals whose ideas were never realized. I thought of aging leftist sitting in a broken down bus trying to sell handicrafts to obtain more marijuana to further their path to enlightenment. I smiled gently at this thought.
The smile was out of place. I could not tell you why, but no one else had the same smile I had. I looked again at the table and played with my hair. I thought that I might get a haircut, but I knew that I would not be happy with it. “Maybe,” I thought, “its long enough to donate to those kids with cancer.” I thought of my friend who had died recently of cancer. I felt sad, at odds with God. The sadness passed.
The sadness passed because I looked away from the table. It was drawing me in too much, in its solid, useful death. The cold rich brown reminded me of chocolate pudding, but its own solidity betrayed it to be something else entirely. It was sucking me in, and I escaped by looking up. I looked around the room again. The reader had changed. He was a taller balding man. His voice reminded me of Kermit the frog. I though that this might have some sort of unconscious association with his name. I realized that I had never taken a psychology course, and I knew the rudiments only from second-hand accounts. I glanced again at the books, but swiftly. Their immense knowledge scared me. They make me aware of all that I do not know, and never will.
I grew more scared. I looked around the room, and saw all the faces. There were many people I knew, and many that I respected. Some of them fell into neither category. I thought what a shame it would be if a bomb went off at this gathering. I could not help but think what kind of effect it would have on the area’s literary community. How would they fill this void? Other less important thought crossed my mind too. What about all the books, what will the library do? The tall balding man was reading an essay of his, something about bombs. I think that this prompted the thought. I do not know.
There was no bomb, it turned out, and the reading was over soon after. I remained behind. Many of the assembled crowd made their way out quickly. There were few lingers. I was one of them. I just wanted to be a glutton on the cookies and punch. There were a few acquaintances from classes over the years, so I made small talk with them. They introduced me to someone I have never seen since, and they went on their way.
I soon found myself to be the only person left in the lobby area, and my voice was echoing off the high ceilings. There was a creeping guilt growing in me. I felt bad for talking to loudly in the library, and yelling at my acquaintance’s back. I went outside and lit a cigarette. My acquaintances offered me a ride home, which I declined. Soon enough I found my way to my apartment, and I was alone again.
I stared off into space, thinking of the background. Books upon books upon books stared back at me. I could not look them in the eyes. I lowered my gaze to the table. The table was large and full of stately feel. I did not know if the table was old, or merely made to look that way. The chair had that same strange anachronistic feel. It was heavy, devoid of cloth or leather, yet comfortable. They were antiques updated to the age of ergonomics.
I felt the heavy wood and noticed that the reading had started. I looked at the reader, and tried to focus. I noted again that I needed glasses. I thought that it was a shame that other bills would have to be paid before I could regain full control of my sight. The reader merged with the books, or the books merged with the reader. I was uncertain which was true. They both looked at me, and they both looked far away, to another place and time that I could not comprehend. I thought of hippies and radicals whose ideas were never realized. I thought of aging leftist sitting in a broken down bus trying to sell handicrafts to obtain more marijuana to further their path to enlightenment. I smiled gently at this thought.
The smile was out of place. I could not tell you why, but no one else had the same smile I had. I looked again at the table and played with my hair. I thought that I might get a haircut, but I knew that I would not be happy with it. “Maybe,” I thought, “its long enough to donate to those kids with cancer.” I thought of my friend who had died recently of cancer. I felt sad, at odds with God. The sadness passed.
The sadness passed because I looked away from the table. It was drawing me in too much, in its solid, useful death. The cold rich brown reminded me of chocolate pudding, but its own solidity betrayed it to be something else entirely. It was sucking me in, and I escaped by looking up. I looked around the room again. The reader had changed. He was a taller balding man. His voice reminded me of Kermit the frog. I though that this might have some sort of unconscious association with his name. I realized that I had never taken a psychology course, and I knew the rudiments only from second-hand accounts. I glanced again at the books, but swiftly. Their immense knowledge scared me. They make me aware of all that I do not know, and never will.
I grew more scared. I looked around the room, and saw all the faces. There were many people I knew, and many that I respected. Some of them fell into neither category. I thought what a shame it would be if a bomb went off at this gathering. I could not help but think what kind of effect it would have on the area’s literary community. How would they fill this void? Other less important thought crossed my mind too. What about all the books, what will the library do? The tall balding man was reading an essay of his, something about bombs. I think that this prompted the thought. I do not know.
There was no bomb, it turned out, and the reading was over soon after. I remained behind. Many of the assembled crowd made their way out quickly. There were few lingers. I was one of them. I just wanted to be a glutton on the cookies and punch. There were a few acquaintances from classes over the years, so I made small talk with them. They introduced me to someone I have never seen since, and they went on their way.
I soon found myself to be the only person left in the lobby area, and my voice was echoing off the high ceilings. There was a creeping guilt growing in me. I felt bad for talking to loudly in the library, and yelling at my acquaintance’s back. I went outside and lit a cigarette. My acquaintances offered me a ride home, which I declined. Soon enough I found my way to my apartment, and I was alone again.
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