Long walks at night —
That’s what’s good for the soul:
Peeking into windows
Watching tired housewives
Trying to fight off
Their beer-maddened husbands.
“And the Moon and the Stars and the World” — Charles Bukowski
The new gig, the job, my contemporary 9 to 5 (and all times variant) is as a convenient store clerk for a local company.
It does what it’s supposed to, which is helps me make money so I can keep myself and toss bucks towards the ravenous bastard bill collectors and debtors that I have accumulated. It’s brutal, to be honest, in that it’s all on-my-feet stuff with no breaks or anything. In other words, it’s stuff that other people do so that we don’t have to do it. We little people are used to that, right?
But because it’s a good deal of physical work, I’m sticking at it part-time because, well, I’m 46 and overweight and I don’t like breaking my body for minimum wage. It works for now, and so do I.
It’s tolerable and still has that new job smell.
The joy of working part-time is that it gives me more hours to focus on other aspects of my life. I’ve been reading Chris Guillebeau‘s The Art of Non-Conformity to learn/refine/discover effective tools for creating that awesome side gig which may or may not make me world famous.
I’m walking more. Granted, it’s to and from work which is a mile from where I live, but it’s nice to stretch my legs on a more consistent basis. There was a time when I was in the middle class that I’d walk around the suburbs, subdivisions, and condo complexes of my pre-crisis years. Like old Chuck above preferred, they were often at night. These perambulations gave me a bit of alone time, step-by-step, to gather my head after a day at some sort of job. They were good times and people used to keep their curtains open more in those days. You could get a snippet of what life what was like for anonymous others. Get unrutted in your own head and realize that there were other people cooking dinner or doing homework or watching Monday Night Football.
Now, it seems like we suffer from a bunker mentality. Or maybe we’re humble and don’t like to show off. Maybe we don’t want display our tired housewives/beer-maddened husband antics for the whole neighborhood. Now we all seem so boring and mundane. Parochial.
Good for the soul, walks are, but you can no longer rely on the pavements being there. Anymore, the Human Condition seems like a mystery.
Music that I jammed to while writing this post: Miles Davis, Live – Evil.