The golden rule, karma, call it what you will

Posted in Uncategorized on February 24, 2018 by rawbacon

There’s only one law:

Do not hurt others or our environment.

No one knows why we are here,

at least,

no one can prove it, yet.

So we need all eight billion of us,

give or take,

to find our reason,

our truth.

Because maybe one day

one of us

will be able to provide

the proof

of that truth.

 

So we need for all of us

to be free

of fear,

of want,

of hate.

To live in a

clean,

healthy

environment.

To be able to pursue

our truth

to the best of our abilities.

 

It’s pretty simple,

if you think about it.

 

 

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Curriculum vitae, such as it is

Posted in Uncategorized on February 24, 2018 by rawbacon

My first job, working at our small local library, learning the card system and reading Anaïs Nin. My boss being the first of a long succession of wise old women.

My second job, getting up at 4 to deliver the papers, in the dark, in the rain, in the stillness of everyone sleeping. Then back to bed, before catching the bus, going to and failing high-school.

My third job, at the local convenience store, except no convenience here, boss hating the local inbreds and vice versa. Gorging on candy and porn mags.

My fourth job, at the cookie factory, learning the hatred of working, sweeping up sweet morsels and pouring them back in the tins.

My fifth job, another factory, stacking boxes of spam on pallets, seeing the maggots fly as dented cans crash to the floor, keeping me vegetarian for a few more years. Remembering the old ladies saying: You’ll be back, as I left for the last time.

My sixt job, training to be a bookseller, in a small town, knowing no one, slinging more office supplies than litterature. Smoking in the office with the old people, learning the importance of smiles. Remember telling my examiner that my barely passing grade was of no importance, I’d never work in a bookstore again, another wrong prediction.

My seventh job, as a learned bookseller, working in a store that’s now no longer, like most of my past places of employment.  The only boy, surrounded by old women, some wise, some less so.

My eight job,  having escaped my mother and my mother country, so nervous they’ll discover my illegality here, not realizing yet, how my white skin protects me. Selling handcrafted italian leather photo albums, badly, yet looked upon so very fondly by my boss. Only time I’ve felt overpaid.

My ninth job, back to bookselling, in a store where no one works, except for me and the mexican kid. Relishing in the sheer numbers of books for sale, more than in any Danish store or even library, still, so very few gems.

My tenth job, back home for xmas, wrapping books and pens like a pro, begging to be let go, so I can get back to my new adopted homeland, my friends, my joys.

My eleventh job, back to the same chain in the promised land, shelving books. Realizing for the first time, after twenty-nine years on this planet, that I have a body, as well as a mind and that without the body, no mind, so better start taking care.

My twelfth job, watering a golf course at night among the born-agains and the meth-heads, enjoying the solitude, not fitting in among my peoples. Leaving behind a friend, now former.

My thirteenth job, finally working in a good bookstore, for rich customers who don’t care. Being poor among the famous people and their fancy cars. Telling my bosses as I quit, of my illegality, recalling their bemusement and savouring their kindness.

My fourteenth job, helping my best friend starting his own business, hard work, so much love, so little money, but always food, drink, smoke, laughter.

My fifteenth job, back home again for the summer, again with the books and the office supplies. Why can’t books be enough?

My sixteenth job, back at friends restaurant, feeling trapped by my illegality, going back to Europe with a crazy plan to hike the continent, never fulfilled, as per usual.

My seventeenth job, stacking painted aluminum plates at night, instructed by a cleless, sweet immigrant, getting yelled at and getting drunk with my boss.

My eighteen job, in the capitol, temping at night, selecting spare parts for hoovers, chosen by the disinterested electronic voice.

My nineteenth job, keeping the order at night, shhhh, this is a hostel, with thin walls. So many late night conversations with sleepless patrons, sorting out their lives, paying forward the kindness of strangers.

My twentieth job, back at the hostel, but now knowing of my attention deficit disorder, realized on my first vacation, three months in the madness of Cambodia. My longest employment so far, leading to a failed attempt at adulthood, buying an apartment, thinking the medicine can keep me sane, centered, together.. mistaken.

My twenty-first job, throwing letters into a machine, stacking boxes of mail for a dying industry, getting fit and singing loudly, masked by the clang clang of the whirling machines.

My twenty-second job, slicing up still warm pigs at night, not having the dexterity to keep the pace, quitting rather than taking my razor sharp knife to the yelling floor manager. Only job I regret not sticking to, never been so fit.

My twenty-third job, on the isle of rainbows, helping users with their issues, for an evil  company that doesn’t care about them or us, but forever grateful, it brought me here.

My twenty-fourth job, a side-gig as an English teacher. Me, with my bad grammar and my Danish accent, leave when I realize my fathers calling is not mine.

My twenty-fifth job, in the cradle of civilization, seeing it dissolve for lack of funds, eating good food and being bored as I’ve never been bored before, helping people over the phone, people who believe they can cheat their desires with an electronic device.

My twenty-sixth job, back on my isle, in my sun-kissed home, talking to angry people who paid good money for an idea of exclusivity, for a company that’s never done customer service and is never gonna learn. But it keeps me here, where the sun shines and life is cheap, so try to stick it out this time, please.

Twenty-six jobs, never fired, from thirteen to forty-three, thirty years of wandering. My father getting by with two jobs till his retirement, this apple got thrown far, far away from its roots.

Lessons learned, if any?

Smiling makes the day go faster and the clients calm down.

Hard work is paid fitness, but only when it’s physical.

Mental stress is a killer.

Forget everything the moment you sign off, with external help, if you need it. You don’t get paid for fretting.

Life’s too short, to work for people who don’t care about their products, their customers, yet here we are again.

 

 

 

Love

Posted in Uncategorized on February 24, 2018 by rawbacon

I have no pictures

of my mother.

I have fading

memories.

I can’t decide,

if forgiveness is needed

or even

appropriate.

We get given life,

no questions asked,

and we

do our best,

never good

enough.

I miss her,

is all.

 

And hope she knew,

I loved her.

 

Waiting for all of it to end

Posted in Uncategorized on February 11, 2018 by rawbacon

Just hanging,

you know?

That’s how I’m doing.

Just waiting

for the plates to stop spinning,

for the rotund lady to do her thing,

for the curtains to drop,

for the devolution.

Let fall

what cannot stand,

please.

Coming up on a come down

Posted in Uncategorized on February 10, 2018 by rawbacon

Measured against any ethical

or even aesthetic

yardstick, my life comes up

short.

Strangely okay with that.

And so we end up with this.

Only in extremis are we alive

Posted in Uncategorized on December 9, 2017 by rawbacon

All I want

is someone to fuck

as the bombs drop

Without great pain, no melancholy

Posted in Uncategorized on December 9, 2017 by rawbacon

Have you ever watched a piece of fiction

and felt an aching sense of melancholy?

Have you then realised

that nothing in your life

can match it?

That is the tragedy

of living well.