How does one negotiate a world not one’s own? How does one be an artist in a corporate world? Money and traditional family values seem inextricably linked, and I care very little for either. (I lie, I want the nice pretty things that money buys, but as with the Little Prince gazing upon the accountant, I do not understand its ability to capture the imagination for its own sake. Unlike him, I do not think that I own the stars, just because I can count them and set them down in ordered charts. And gold is only valuable for its conductivity, its ability to make this lovely piece of machinery upon which I write this, work.)
As for building familial empires, I suspect this to be a rather small-minded, short-sited endeavor in this day and age. There are too many of us humans, so spawning progeny just to pass things down to seems kind of silly to me. Why do this? Just so you can theoretically express post-humous disapproval at the way your progeny squanders it? There are too many contradictions inherent in this life-plan. But then conversely, I must present quite the conundrum for some. I quite like working for its own sake, and this is evident, but I want the work to be wonderful in and of itself, not for the profit it can earn for somebody else. my work ethic is not theirs, I guess. I want my work to swallow me whole, then spit me out exhausted, bedraggled, as more than I was before. The all-consuming fiery inspirational stuff. It’s still full of drudge, but it’s the type of wary plodding that’s worth every second.
Right now, I often find myself hiding from myself. There are many ways to hide, you can watch episodes of Star Trek back to back while working, this way there will be no space in your head for your own thoughts. You can drink, though this, if done excessively, can lead to rather nasty side-effects, and sometimes a surprise encounter with yourself, once your defenses are down. At this point you’re usually ill-equipped to deal with such things, and being stared at disapprovingly by your inner self is just, well, embarrassing. So I tend not to rely on that particular method. You can surf endless pages of useless trivia, keep your consciousness fractured, a kind of self imposed ADHD. But none of this is particularly sufficient, and only leads to a type of malaise. While in the background remains the question, will and can I be assimilated into the group consciousness? Could I be a double agent? Or must I flee the great corporate ship and find some other method of keeping life and limb together. (The fact that I am currently picturing a Borg ship is testament to how much Star Trek I’ve been watching.)
I would rather surmount radical cultural differences within a community of thinkers/artists/questioners than try to understand a world in which people genuinely think that status is denoted by what car you drive, that cooing over toddlers automatically makes you a ‘nice’ person, no matter how cut throat and manipulative you might be outside the realms of your family. I think I lack a certain type of oblivious confidence, the stuff that convinces me that earning a paycheck justifies anything. And that while I am indeed quite fond of pretty shapes and colours,I am not convinced they mean anything when employed purely to create aspirational needs for nothing in particular. For shiny pieces of plastic, that are useful, and sometimes pretty awesome, but not that much more awesome than other pretty pieces of plastic, that go ‘bing’ when someone wants you. Perhaps there is something missing, but I can’t care too deeply about towing the company line, I have to translate it into personal terms. What does this work mean to me? At the very least is it beautiful to look at, even if that’s not quite enough. Truly creative work has always seemed to me to be a bit of a tumultuous process, full of bewildered confusion alternating with ridiculous highs where everything is clear and driven and all-conquering. Where the hand and eye and mind are all delightfully in concert. Creativity, for me, is admittedly a drug, and I’m not sure an occasional taste will be enough. While I figure this all out, I’ll end with a image-meme that’s been doing the rounds, and provides some small degree of comfort, even if it is delusional.
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