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Monday, March 26, 2012

perils of work



Our new apartment is a bit darker than your average, respectable hobbit hole, but in the evenings the setting sun hits the top of the fridge just beautifully. We're settling in, and every day my bones are a little less restless, my feathers a little less ruffled. Today I went around with a little cast-iron pan in lieu of a hammer, hanging the remaining pictures on the walls.

Between the two of them, moving and settling have contrived to make us re-examine
breakfasts
careers
transportation
work habits
leisure
one little household's flow of cold, hard cash
interior decorating
education
hobbies
windows
fights
cities

Though it is probably not much of a shock to anyone who really knows me, I am shocked to admit that I do not want a "career"--ever or at all. I do not want to work for anybody or spend 80% of my day away from home, or leave myself with only the scraps. And I don't want to smear that smarmy gloss over the issues at hand, as if the world is one big corporate interview.

I want to attend to my life, of which earning a living is only one part, ever moving towards true center. You know I have plans. I want to write books (and so does Tim). How should we do it? We are not crazy.

This house is terribly important.

2 comments:

  1. "I don't want to earn my living. I want to live." -Oscar Wilde

    A worthy motto. Hold to it.

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  2. You ask "how shall we do it?"
    You are smart already, and root in the basement of a hoem you own, earn money from. Continue this. Do not have children. Choose this, and choose it early, take joy in it. It may change, but ensure goals of books are accomplished first, then renegotiate. Read widely (you do this - check) and: begin.

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