Here I am in the middle of the recession of our Lord 2011. The job market has crashed. Employers fill what small vacancies are left with only the most earnest sycophants. The rest sit gamely pinging CV after CV via email like trying to erode a wall with spit. Occasionally I see middle aged guys. Thick-set body with a lifetime of labor prodding at the vacancy database computers in a ‘Jobcentre Plus’, this new world makes pre-schoolers out of our warriors. And me, I have taken my CV and thrown it into the bonfire of my intellectual vanity determined to live what I believe without compromise and find, somewhere along the way, my authentic self. My mate told me yesterday that I think too much… true say.
I started off doing what I have done before, pinging CVs to companies with cover letters intoning goodwill to all. I built a fake self that I chucked at alien recruitment officers who responded with nothing, or said they liked me and never called again. My ability to ‘choose’ a job was severely affected by the recession. No company can afford to risk taking on people who might not immediately work well. Every application requires experience or training. And seeing as I have no specific training and I’ve hated every full-time job I’ve ever had the message was clear to me: ‘sorry you’re plum out of luck’.
Today, I sat across from the Dr marveling at how easy it is to get a sick note from them. But then again, my sickness includes large lashing of delusion and denial so I would think that I’m OK. I’ve been claiming sick pay for nearly a year now during rush hour, depending on my mood, I see either wage-slave drones or dignified, independent folk. There is no room in my mind for middle ground. And listening to Terrence McKenna and Bill Hicks and reading Ivan Illich and Henry David Theroux consistently bolster my feeling that ‘work’ is not for me.
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