The slave peeks through a crack in the door

I have work issues. Slavery issues. Slave-labor issues. Deep-rooted stuff.

Which makes this tidbit … this factoid … all the more compelling.

I requested to be moved off Friday evenings at one of my jobs for one purpose:

so that I can have one night of fun, of pleasure, above all else music a week.

GASP!!!!!!!!

{faint onto floor}

(swish smelling salts under fainter’s nose}

For the record: I did not bail on that job! — though lord knows I want off so bad.

And I did not leave my boss high ‘n’ dry.

It’s a stupid job. That’s what I call it. “My stupid job.” I don’t tell people what it is. It’s so off path off purpose and far beneath who I am, my calling, etc. etc. etc. and etc.

Just let the record show:

I did not request less work.

I merely requested to be moved off Friday evening shifts and ONTO another evening of her need.

Unbeknownst to her, I did this so I can have one evening a week that’s enriching.

{shoot me now for just saying that!} {see, right there’s an example of that deep-rooted work-slavery complex}

See, here’s the thing {whispering so the brutal slavery gods don’t hear}

There’s this guy in town. A musician. And his team. This guy — and his musician team — is phenomenal. I mean truly talented. Gifted. Beyond the pale. Born to play music. It’s his life, his passion, his purpose, his path.

You go into the brewery with troubles, watch him play and all those cares n’s troubles just slip away. They evaporate. {poof} He’s just that good. That born to play. You can’t help but feel good. His joy’s infectious.

He plays at the brewery every Friday night.

And because I work at a job {“my stupid job”that I’d dump in a heartbeat if I could}, I don’t get to hear him/their music.

I miss it. I crave it. I love music and I love his/their music.

I know I shouldn’t.

I know I shouldn’t love anything. Shouldn’t seek pleasures. Shouldn’t feel anything but the pride of enduring shitty/slavish jobs.

Shouldn’t feel anything but the pride of Enduring whatever brutalities and cruelties are tossed upon me through life.

I know this.

I know that by even by wanting more than enslaved drudgery — never mind seeking relief from it for one evening! — I’m betraying … well, fuck it, too complex to explain.

Just sayin’. Pleasure is not an option.

An evening of music: not an option.

Except I made it so.

The gumption it took, the balls, the cajones, the defiance of that deep slave labor-work complex to request a slight alteration in work schedule … this is remarkable! To be celebrated!

And my boss, btw, whom I like, btw: totally agreeable. She didn’t scowl, refuse, argue, deny, write me up or punish me directly or subversively.

And believe you me, authorities have been doing that all my life when I seek a sliver of freedom or pleasure!!

She accommodated.

“Which nights do you need help?” I asked.

“Tuesday or Thursday,” she said.

“Let’s do Tuesdays.”

It was that simple. I like my boss. She’s a refreshing change from cruel dictators.

I’m beginning to ramble. It’s a hazard when trying to write about a very deep subject yet not write about it.

Come Friday nights, I may or may not beat myself for the pleasure of fantastic live music. I hope I don’t but that slave-labor-master complex is embedded.

Or:

I may realize: “Hey, I just loosened the link of my shackle!”

“Maybe there’s something good to be experienced outside of the slave camp.”

“Maybe life wants us to be bigger than what we were given as children and/or by karma.”

“Maybe music truly does heal the soul, even one as battered and beaten and wrecked as mine.”

“Maybe my dad {whom I love to death} is on the other side having to work on these very issues that he imposed upon me, upon others. Maybe his karma’s getting worked on over there as mine is here.”

Dunno.  It’s complicated. It’s a fucking mess.

I just know that a teensy part of me pushed through the wall of drudgery and slavery through the power of music.

My love of music.

This particular musician’s music.

Is that so wrong? Does reaching toward life deserve the firing squad?

Or is it possible that this whole Slave Labor – Work Complex is an illusion … a deep-seated construct designed to oppress and suppress and imprison and control others for ego gratification?

Dunno.

God bless Parker and his boys for their incredible music!

I can’t help thinking that music was gifted to mankind to raise us from our own self-created prisons and darknesses, to uplift and heal.

 

 

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