Workin' for the Man Sucks

He came upon a pond and as he swam there it became colder and colder. A flock of creatures flew overhead, the most beautiful he had ever seen. They cried down to him, and hearing their sounds made his heart leap and break at the same time. He cried back in a sound he had never before made. He had never seen creatures more beautiful, and he had never felt more bereft.

The Ugly Duckling

Listened to a podcast last night about a bloke and his wife and his four kids who launched out into an artistic career, because he felt God telling him to depend on him, with everyone around him telling him he was being "irresponsible" and quoting verses at him about "if you will not work you will not eat" and he felt like a loony but felt like God was telling him to. And he hasn't gone without a meal ever, even though the electricity has been cut off from time to time, and he still feels like a loony but he feels free and like he is doing what God is telling him to do.

Sometimes I wonder if God is telling me or suggesting things to me and I'm not listening. Or not believing because it sounds too good. I'm inclined to think, "Why me?" Why should I have a satisfying job being paid to write when heaps of people have shitty jobs bored out of their skulls? I don't want to buy into that Gen X thing we were brought upon that all of us are meant to have wonderful amazing jobs. But then on the other hand, why not? Hope deferred makes the heart sick and I've been working shit jobs for several decades. Writing and being published is right there in front of my eyes on the newstands but they might as well be on Jupiter if I don't believe it's possible. And I don't really. But I do. But then I don't. Sometimes I think the greatest yearnings I have for freedom, to run out the door and fly into the wind, to go and work in Alice Springs, to write and keep writing, are the most responsible followings after God I could do if I had the courage. Other times I don't know if I am hearing anything at all, or if I am it's just my own ego. Sometimes i think if I could just hear him tell me in that crystal clear/hardly heard way that I so love and hate, along with a few wet fleeces on the ground, I would be off like a rocket, going wherever or doing whatever. Other times my knees knock together at the thought.

I am at work feeling unwell. Feeling inspired by what I heard last night. Wondering and wandering. Working for the man.