The golden handcuffs...
So there it is folks. A six year apprenticeship. Many tears, many nights melting under institutional fluorescence, tooling away as a "Student" Assistant -- my soul deliquescing -- and now, fruition. A part time gig. But that is not all, one "performance appraisal" later (3 month probationary period), and I'm now full time. Full time, Sessional, that is, the Fall/Winter Semester. This hungry dog snapped that bone up pretty fast. Next!
I said to my super after it was over, and the salvos of flowers and perfumed words had been shot back and forth, that perhaps it was a case of the "squeaky wheel." But no, I've been assured that my "punishment" is condign: sentenced to 25 years soft labour in the hardscrabble house known as the Main Stacks. Duties to include: signing out and signing in books, explanation of procedure (Lace), enforcement of policy (Leather), collection of fines and copy card payments, etc, etc.
The sad thing is...and here is my sorry lot...This is a "closed-ended" gig. What I mean by that is not so much opportunity for advancement, for which I must admit I do not hunger, having not a yuppified bone in my bod, but rather that the job is tightly constricted and defined. In other words, give me a couple of more months, and I will come to its end. I will have sussed the bound. Surveyed the dominion. ETc. Etc.
Now, for some this is reassuring. I have a few such colleagues. They pleasure in set bounds, and relish the performance of routine, in its steadiness there is comfort. Yet, I know myself, and confess that there will be problems looming. I will grow restless, perhaps even indolent. But, dammit, this is such a good gig, and these are such good coworkers, I really can't let this happen!
Advice? A creative outlet? Perhaps medieval weaponry? I always loved a good Bec De Corbin fight. Or Bulgarian sports cars? Basque poetry? The erotica of ancient Mongolia? Genghis Khan's erotic lovebook is supposedly ripe with aphrodisiacal fruits...
I said to my super after it was over, and the salvos of flowers and perfumed words had been shot back and forth, that perhaps it was a case of the "squeaky wheel." But no, I've been assured that my "punishment" is condign: sentenced to 25 years soft labour in the hardscrabble house known as the Main Stacks. Duties to include: signing out and signing in books, explanation of procedure (Lace), enforcement of policy (Leather), collection of fines and copy card payments, etc, etc.
The sad thing is...and here is my sorry lot...This is a "closed-ended" gig. What I mean by that is not so much opportunity for advancement, for which I must admit I do not hunger, having not a yuppified bone in my bod, but rather that the job is tightly constricted and defined. In other words, give me a couple of more months, and I will come to its end. I will have sussed the bound. Surveyed the dominion. ETc. Etc.
Now, for some this is reassuring. I have a few such colleagues. They pleasure in set bounds, and relish the performance of routine, in its steadiness there is comfort. Yet, I know myself, and confess that there will be problems looming. I will grow restless, perhaps even indolent. But, dammit, this is such a good gig, and these are such good coworkers, I really can't let this happen!
Advice? A creative outlet? Perhaps medieval weaponry? I always loved a good Bec De Corbin fight. Or Bulgarian sports cars? Basque poetry? The erotica of ancient Mongolia? Genghis Khan's erotic lovebook is supposedly ripe with aphrodisiacal fruits...
posted by Stallionforce at 5:10 PM
3 Comments:
This seems like an opportunity to relax, does it not? You have a real, steady gig, in an environment that makes minimal demands. Sure, the numbness may set in from the ceaseless repetition, but it asks so very little in return. Think of T.S. Eliot and his work as a bank teller, for example. You will have job security, and still have ample to give to efforts that lie closer to your heart. If you're counting votes, I would cast mine in support of a creative outlet.
Good advice Tim. The great Canadian novel isn't coming any time soon, and may already have hapened (yes, Philistine here). Maybe I'll stick to metal. I figure I've got the great Canadian riff in me.
\m/ \m/
I began my toil in 1988. Just shy of 5-years apprenticeship, then three years in the salt mines of the Main Stacks (I did take 6 months away from the mines, but returned) and then, well you pretty much know the rest.
It is a good gig. Which makes it really hard to walk away from even when one gets restless. I have found blogging gets me through some of the rougher stretches, but if you have a great novel (or even a Great Riff) in you, it should take priority!
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