Working for Dreams

Today I was in a good mood as I walked to work over and around the slush left over from yesterday's snow storm, and then a bad mood as I barely missed the train because I'd walked so slowly, and then another one didn't come for twenty minutes, and then the connecting train was running on the local line instead of the express line, so despite my plans to arrive fifteen minutes early, I was fifteen minutes late.  My class is used to this, and it's no big deal because we have four hours together, which is more than enough.  But still, it reminded me of a lack of power over my own direction that has bothered me ever since I moved to NYC in 2006.  Then I taught my class and I immediately felt fine and taught as best I could and made them laugh as much as I could.  I had a lot of energy at the end, but then I sat on the train for an hour, and bought groceries, and cooked, and ate, and now I'm just sitting down to write.

I've been thinking a lot about how I used to feel when I lived in New York before I went on my voyage to experience as much of the world as possible, expand my perspective, deepen my understanding and increase my power to be happy amidst my surroundings, whatever they may be.  The good part is that I talk to people at work instead of sitting in front of a computer, I don't have to pretend to be someone I'm not by existing in a corporate atmosphere, I am generally more comfortable around all sorts of people, and I have treasures upon treasures inside of me.  The bad part is that I still live in an area of Queens that has many depressing memories for me.  I'm here because one of my greatest friends in the world is really being amazing by letting me stay here so long and rejecting any offers of compensation.  And I gotta say, he lives in a better part of Astoria than I used to.  That being said, I really don't like Queens very much, and having lived in this neighborhood for two years during my first stint in the city, I feel like I've backtracked within my personal pattern of needing to explore the unknown.  The other bad part is I'm still working jobs that don't quite make use of my full potential, a pattern which is going to be hard to avoid until I break through as a writer, because nobody's going to pay me to sit in a room for 8 hours and write whatever I want to each day unless they know I'm going to make them a lot of money.  And then I would set my own hours in that case anyway, which would be great because I work better at night and need to sleep in the morning.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.  Basically, the biggest thing that bothers me is I was really exhausted and didn't feel in control of my life when I used to live in New York, and I feel the same way now after two months here (as of tomorrow).  Although, to be fair, it's been a big transition and I haven't even gotten my own room in an apartment yet, let alone a bed.  And I arrived just before the onset of winter, and I'm currently dependent on a work schedule that won't allow me to go on weekend adventures for seven more weeks, or until I get another higher-paying part-time job, possibly as a tutor, which will give me more leverage with this one.  I must remind myself to be patient and appreciate what I have and know that the time will come when I am living the life I love, and until then I can make the most of the present with the training I've had on the road the past few years.

All of that considered, here are a few songs and literary samples which express both moods: a good day at work and a bad day at work.  We'll start with a bad day at work:

I've just noticed that the date this video was posted to Youtube was June 30, 2010, the day I returned home after seven months of getting away to find a better life.  But the same feeling consumes me from time to time, all these years down the line, having once again returned to New York subway commutes and unfulfilling fatigue, which is the opposite of the way I felt at the end of a good conversation or kindergarten lesson in Japan, or a twelve hour shift at the winery, or painting my parents' house or writing anything for a long time.

I read this Charles Bukowski poem a lot when I worked dull office jobs in the city 2006-09:

Spark

I always resented all the years, the hours, the
minutes I gave them as a working stiff, it
actually hurt my head, my insides, it made me
dizzy and a bit crazy—I couldn’t understand the
murdering of my years
yet my fellow workers gave no signs of
agony, many of them even seemed satisfied, and
seeing them that way drove me almost as crazy as
the dull and senseless work.

the workers submitted.

the work pounded them to nothingness, they were
scooped-out and thrown away.

I resented each minute, every minute as it was

mutilated
and nothing relieved the monotony.

I considered suicide.*
I drank^ away my few leisure hours.

I worked for decades.

I lived with the worst kind of women, they killed what
the job failed to kill.
I knew that I was dying.
something in me said, go ahead, die, sleep, become as
them, accept.
then something else in me said, no, save the tiniest
bit.

it needn’t be much, just a spark.
a spark can set a whole forest on
fire.
just a spark.
save it.

I think I did.
I’m glad I did.
what a lucky god damned
thing.

* I didn't consider that, but I did worry about where I was going and what it was all about

^ I preferred to smoke leaves of grass

Now I don't feel the same weight of drudgery I felt before, but there is still much frustration to be found in teaching:

But then there are the good days of work, and I'm not even talking about my dream work, which is telling stories.

When I taught conversations in Japan and one large class in San Francisco, the best days, the ones where I felt like I made a difference, went sort of like this:

(the first two minutes of the clip until she opens the note,
not the baboon part)

 

 The Prophet, by Khalil Gibran: 

            Then a ploughman said, Speak to us of Work.

            And he answered, saying:

            You work that you may keep pace with the earth and the soul of the earth.

            For to be idle is to become a stranger unto the seasons, and to step out of life’s procession, that marches in majesty and proud submission towards the infinite.

            When you work you are a flute through whose heart the whispering of the hours turns to music.

            Which of you would be a reed, dumb and silent, when all else sings together in unison?

            Always you have been told that work is a curse and labour a misfortune.

            But I say to you that when you work you fulfil a part of earth’s furthest dream, assigned to you when that dream was born,

            And in keeping yourself with labour you are in truth loving life,

            And to love life through labour is to be intimate with life’s inmost secret.

            But if you in your pain call birth an affliction and the support of the flesh a curse written upon your brow, then I answer that naught but the sweat of your brow shall wash away that which is written.

            You have been told also that life is darkness, and in your weariness you echo what was said by the weary.

            And I say that life is indeed darkness save when there is urge,

            And all urge is blind save when there is knowledge,

            And all knowledge is vain save when there is work,

            And all work is empty save when there is love;

            And when you work with love you bind yourself to yourself, and to one another, and to God.

            And what is it to work with love?

            It is to weave the cloth with threads drawn from your heart, even as if your beloved were to wear that cloth.

            It is to build a house with affection, even as if your beloved were to dwell in that house.

            It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap the harvest with joy, even as if your beloved were to eat the fruit.

            It is to charge all things you fashion with a breath of your own spirit,

            And to know that all the blessed dead are standing about you and watching.

            Often have I heard you say, as if speaking in sleep, “He who works in marble, and finds the shape of his own soul in the stone, is nobler than he who ploughs the soil.

            And he who seizes the rainbow to lay it on a cloth in the likeness of man, is more than he who makes the sandals for our feet.”

            But I say, not in sleep but in the over-wakefulness of noontide, that the wind speaks not more sweetly to the giant oaks than to the least of all the blades of grass;

            And he alone is great who turns the voice of the wind into a song made sweeter by his own loving.

            Work is love made visible.

            And if you cannot work with love but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the gate of the temple and take alms of those who work with joy.

I understand, Khalil, but there is truly something to be said for doing work that you love as opposed to doing work your whole life simply for the sake of doing work.  Follow your bliss, live the life you love!

So I guess I just have to remember something I wrote a long time ago: if I really want something, I just have to work hard and be patient, and it will come when it is supposed to.