Thinking today about the space between here and here.
Imagine living in a culture that had your back.
There's a lot of different kinds of poverty.
Poverty of money
Poverty of spirit
Poverty of vision
Poverty of generosity
That whitey, he sure do some damage.
Showing posts with label money. Show all posts
Showing posts with label money. Show all posts
I was going to have a break from writing here, where barely anyone reads anyway (except for those of you who do, who I like very much). Sometimes blogging feels like a luxury and I feel like I should turn my energy towards something more worthwhile, like some half-written essays that are collecting a bit of dust on them, being written by hand and then left in piles on the floor or on tables. I'm feeling encouraged to return to essay writing (I love her so) after a big morsel of recent encouragement from Creative Nonfiction, who think they might have possibly found space for a piece I submitted something like nine months ago and while they understand that someone else might pick it up in the meantime (being a classy and understanding unit that accepts simultaneous submissions) could they hang onto it for a bit longer? Well, I figure another few months isn't going to make much of a difference, and I understand the difficulties that come with being a small enterprise having to plough through submissions from the world over. So while I understand and yet feel frustrated, I also feel heartened that a journal I love is considering putting some of my words inside it. Even though payment won't extend to me being able to compost some of it back into a new subscription because I'm so bloody broke.
Sigh. Money. I'll repeat here my mantra that money is meant to be a tool and a device that allows us to share our stuff amongst each other. While there are lovely cinnamon-smelling whiffs of people doing it differently, money has on the whole become something that keeps us slogging and slugging and serving the machine instead. This HAS to change - and it will. The most surprising thing is that so little has changed half a decade after the GFC, except in pockets of sanity like Iceland, and even then that's not a systemic change but a facing of damage done.
Gazing into my crystal ball of future trends, I'll say expect to see more and more discussion over the next months and years about interest (or usury as it used to be called in the days where it was widely recognized as a great and destructive evil) and the concept of demurrage, which is something I'm still getting my head around but which basically is an element inserted into the economic system which would mean that the longer you hang onto money the more you lose because it will lose some of its value, so that hoarding it ends up becoming a ridiculous concept. Which means that money again would become something that is meant to flow, not something some of us hang onto in a bid for security, and just this one thing would change so, so, so, so, so much. We would begin resembling again the gift economics of the past and less the beholden and enslaved populace we are now.
~
I began panicking a little yesterday morning because when I woke up, I felt simply awful. I felt like the sinusitis that's plagued me over the last year was making another return. Congested head, dizzy, nauseous. Buddhism talks about learning to face the things we are averse to, that cause a strong reaction of disgust within us. I struggled with this aversion yesterday morning because I have had four weeks where I have begun to have a bit more energy, and where I have actually felt happy, and where my creative juices have begun dripping all over the floor. To have to return to this small and ugly area was not something that I was savouring in the least.
So I tried to work with it. I didn't want to be there, but instead of being averse I tried to embrace it. Which meant going back to bed. I surrounded myself with my phone, with some books, and with some paper and pen, and I wrote a complaining blog post, and I began putting my meandering thoughts down for a competition I've been meaning to begin exploring for a while. And eventually, the aversion felt like it loosened its grip a little. I even felt happy while feeling awful. And so I chilled, drank lots of neem tea, flushed my sinuses with a xylitol rinse, and got through the day. It was not where I wanted to be, but I managed to chillax with where I was. I was very pleased.
I'm feeling so much better today than yesterday, but still weak. But what felt like the beginnings of a full-blown sinus infection I think may have simply been a strong reaction to the smoke haze that hung like curtains all over the place yesterday from several fires on the outskirts of northern Melbourne, most of which have been deliberately lit by people who really need to get a handle on whatever shit they're projecting onto a bunch of innocent animals.
I struggle so much with feeling so vulnerable with a body that does not work properly. It really is a vulnerable position to be in. And yet I keep reminding myself that vulnerabilities can also be strengths. They help us stay open, and compassionate, and understanding of others who feel the same way. They slow us down in certain areas, which may be exactly what other parts of us are screaming for. I guess it's all in the way you get to look at it, if your anxiety levels will distil enough to let you see the sandbars.
Sigh. Money. I'll repeat here my mantra that money is meant to be a tool and a device that allows us to share our stuff amongst each other. While there are lovely cinnamon-smelling whiffs of people doing it differently, money has on the whole become something that keeps us slogging and slugging and serving the machine instead. This HAS to change - and it will. The most surprising thing is that so little has changed half a decade after the GFC, except in pockets of sanity like Iceland, and even then that's not a systemic change but a facing of damage done.
Gazing into my crystal ball of future trends, I'll say expect to see more and more discussion over the next months and years about interest (or usury as it used to be called in the days where it was widely recognized as a great and destructive evil) and the concept of demurrage, which is something I'm still getting my head around but which basically is an element inserted into the economic system which would mean that the longer you hang onto money the more you lose because it will lose some of its value, so that hoarding it ends up becoming a ridiculous concept. Which means that money again would become something that is meant to flow, not something some of us hang onto in a bid for security, and just this one thing would change so, so, so, so, so much. We would begin resembling again the gift economics of the past and less the beholden and enslaved populace we are now.
~
I began panicking a little yesterday morning because when I woke up, I felt simply awful. I felt like the sinusitis that's plagued me over the last year was making another return. Congested head, dizzy, nauseous. Buddhism talks about learning to face the things we are averse to, that cause a strong reaction of disgust within us. I struggled with this aversion yesterday morning because I have had four weeks where I have begun to have a bit more energy, and where I have actually felt happy, and where my creative juices have begun dripping all over the floor. To have to return to this small and ugly area was not something that I was savouring in the least.
So I tried to work with it. I didn't want to be there, but instead of being averse I tried to embrace it. Which meant going back to bed. I surrounded myself with my phone, with some books, and with some paper and pen, and I wrote a complaining blog post, and I began putting my meandering thoughts down for a competition I've been meaning to begin exploring for a while. And eventually, the aversion felt like it loosened its grip a little. I even felt happy while feeling awful. And so I chilled, drank lots of neem tea, flushed my sinuses with a xylitol rinse, and got through the day. It was not where I wanted to be, but I managed to chillax with where I was. I was very pleased.
I'm feeling so much better today than yesterday, but still weak. But what felt like the beginnings of a full-blown sinus infection I think may have simply been a strong reaction to the smoke haze that hung like curtains all over the place yesterday from several fires on the outskirts of northern Melbourne, most of which have been deliberately lit by people who really need to get a handle on whatever shit they're projecting onto a bunch of innocent animals.
I struggle so much with feeling so vulnerable with a body that does not work properly. It really is a vulnerable position to be in. And yet I keep reminding myself that vulnerabilities can also be strengths. They help us stay open, and compassionate, and understanding of others who feel the same way. They slow us down in certain areas, which may be exactly what other parts of us are screaming for. I guess it's all in the way you get to look at it, if your anxiety levels will distil enough to let you see the sandbars.
 |
| Ian Muttoo (Creative Commons attribution/share-alike) |
If money is something we invented as a means of exchange, why is there so little of it to go around?
If the world was a body, the greedy ones controlling the finances of the world would be something akin to a big wad of chronic fatigue syndrome, stopping us from freely moving about doing our thang.
If the world is to stop being a mentally ill body, it will remove control from those greedy people and change the way it distributes its energy.
Money in itself has become way too much of a focus, making us smaller.
The world can be a very different place to what it currently is.
Much more lively, with its people suddenly much more interesting and fascinating, much richer. Sane.
It's a liberating - or unnerving - concept that this too shall pass. But it shall. All of it, whether good or bad. For me right now, feeling bogged down by slowness and infected sinuses and molasses, it is a beauty of a thought, shooting me across the sky into some sort of perspective.
As some of you know, I work as a transcriber. Work that I am very good at, and which my conscientious self takes pride in doing well. And work that I'm also not very disciplined with, because it's not really suited to my temperament. A word of advice: if you're going to work from home, make sure it's something you love. It makes it just that little bit easier :)
I'm also in the process of studying to work as a personal care worker for people requiring assistance in their homes, and to get out and about in the community. The space between this job and the next feels like it's going to drag on forever and ever, but in reality I will be trained and ready to go in my new work in five months. Hopefully. I am still to organise my placement - all 120 hours of it - before I can get out and working. Hopefully I will be able to have all of that done and dusted and in five months be off and running ... or as off and running as a CFSey person can be :)
My anxiety screams that five months is way too long because money. Money is tight and I have not been contributing much at all in recent times, leaving my partner to shoulder most of the burden, which awakens pretty much every demon that I have, giving ample opportunity to feel depressed and like a useless loser, basically. I've been trying to drum up extra transcription work, but it's not been all that forthcoming.
And so once I move into my new part-time work situation, combined with the disability support pension I hope to begin receiving soon, and suddenly the world of Susie will feel a little less precarious. And I will be able to resume a regular writing practice again. Because my world has been as wobbly as a fault line for some time now, and I need it to stabilise for my health's sake, both mentally and physically.
So I will hang on till then. Wait in the fire, wait in the fire. This too shall pass, and what has felt like it's forever coming will be here and I can relax.
To be brutally honest, the thought of washing old men's testicles is terrifying to me. The thought of assisting the old man who lives on the end of the testicles to remain independent in his home for as long as possible is exciting and gratifying. The former I will get used to. Hopefully not the latter.
And so I wait until then. But it's a stressful wait. To be honest with you, I'm struggling. Money woes, old trauma that rears it's head up and threatens to devour. Health going up and down like a bride's nightie so I can't get any purchase on anything, so I'm not productive, so I feel like shit.
I feel like shit. And I feel apologetic about it because I'm paranoid. And I feel paranoid because almost menopause. And so this post is turning into a whinge, but I'm sorry, I'm just simply not shiny. I'm tarnished. Too much time on my hands with menopause looming so close to be able to resist overthinking. Which contributes to the extra health things. But I'm trying. I'm trying so hard to climb out of this pit.
(In fact, I think the problem with me is not so much that I don't try as I overtry. And I overcare. I know this, but I've come to know it just a little bit better lately. I so want to be free of the past ...)
As some of you know, I work as a transcriber. Work that I am very good at, and which my conscientious self takes pride in doing well. And work that I'm also not very disciplined with, because it's not really suited to my temperament. A word of advice: if you're going to work from home, make sure it's something you love. It makes it just that little bit easier :)
I'm also in the process of studying to work as a personal care worker for people requiring assistance in their homes, and to get out and about in the community. The space between this job and the next feels like it's going to drag on forever and ever, but in reality I will be trained and ready to go in my new work in five months. Hopefully. I am still to organise my placement - all 120 hours of it - before I can get out and working. Hopefully I will be able to have all of that done and dusted and in five months be off and running ... or as off and running as a CFSey person can be :)
My anxiety screams that five months is way too long because money. Money is tight and I have not been contributing much at all in recent times, leaving my partner to shoulder most of the burden, which awakens pretty much every demon that I have, giving ample opportunity to feel depressed and like a useless loser, basically. I've been trying to drum up extra transcription work, but it's not been all that forthcoming.
And so once I move into my new part-time work situation, combined with the disability support pension I hope to begin receiving soon, and suddenly the world of Susie will feel a little less precarious. And I will be able to resume a regular writing practice again. Because my world has been as wobbly as a fault line for some time now, and I need it to stabilise for my health's sake, both mentally and physically.
So I will hang on till then. Wait in the fire, wait in the fire. This too shall pass, and what has felt like it's forever coming will be here and I can relax.
To be brutally honest, the thought of washing old men's testicles is terrifying to me. The thought of assisting the old man who lives on the end of the testicles to remain independent in his home for as long as possible is exciting and gratifying. The former I will get used to. Hopefully not the latter.
And so I wait until then. But it's a stressful wait. To be honest with you, I'm struggling. Money woes, old trauma that rears it's head up and threatens to devour. Health going up and down like a bride's nightie so I can't get any purchase on anything, so I'm not productive, so I feel like shit.
I feel like shit. And I feel apologetic about it because I'm paranoid. And I feel paranoid because almost menopause. And so this post is turning into a whinge, but I'm sorry, I'm just simply not shiny. I'm tarnished. Too much time on my hands with menopause looming so close to be able to resist overthinking. Which contributes to the extra health things. But I'm trying. I'm trying so hard to climb out of this pit.
(In fact, I think the problem with me is not so much that I don't try as I overtry. And I overcare. I know this, but I've come to know it just a little bit better lately. I so want to be free of the past ...)
And so I can't wait to get out there working, in whatever capacity my chronically fatigued body will allow me. I really can't wait. I know I am going to be so much happier when I do. Perhaps then I will be able to write posts that are about things that extend a little beyond my very own navel ;)
To finish, in my class last week we watched two episodes of Derek. Have you seen it? Ricky Gervais plays Derek, a worker in a nursing home, and all it took was 29 minutes or so to have me gathered in and in love with these characters. A lovely light-hearted look at ageing, disability, and what it means to be human in the very best sense. Gervais is so brilliant in this.
According to the Melbourne Institute’s Household, Income and Labour Dynamics in Australia Survey, the majority of Aussies are better off now than they were ten years ago. I am not one of those people.
I am in the process of applying for a disability pension. It is horrible enough filling in page after page of personal details for faceless bureaucracy. If I wasn't feeling small and losery and ashamed to begin with, this process would instill in me the levels of shame required for those who will claim support from the government. After all, you cannot make this process too easy or else everybody will be rushing from their cubicles onto the social security bandwagon.
As a further insult to my flaccid confidence levels, as part of my application I have to provide details of my sole trader economic status for the transcription work I've been doing from home for the past three years. Problem with that is that I haven't been keeping up with my tax payments. Money’s tight, especially when you have a chronic illness, and managing my money well has never been one of my strong suits. Which adds to my already flailing confidence because we are expected to juggle fiscal balls along with all the others imposed upon us by a system that serves those at the top far better than it suits me at the bottom. If we don't perform well in the areas that have been assigned to us as recognised markers of adultness – like being able to earn dosh – then we are failures, even if we happen to write some pretty good poetry, even if we say so ourselves.
This system pits its slaves one against the other, so that rather than feel sympathy for someone who’s struggling some may well be inclined to look down on me for being a financial mismanager. It may be an occasion for them to pat themselves on the back, glad that they are not me. It will also serve the purpose of getting them to focus on me, instead of the system we live under. It serves its purpose well, (although there are signs of it crumpling round the edges as more and more of us question why the way we live is so completely alienating to us, the tellers of our own stories).
Some may be inclined to be glad they’re not me because of my chronic illness/pension-claiming/tax-dodging status. Hell, I would. Being me is not something you aspire to. Unemployable (apparently, if job applications are anything to go by), I have been out on the edge of financial vulnerability for years. I am the type of person who perpetuates that starving artist in the garret scenario by stupidly choosing as their passion writing, which does not pay well, if at all, and which is notoriously difficult to break into, requiring a hide of steel that was not made available to my genetic subset. But then again, we do not seem to choose our passions; they choose us.
I am the type of person who feels sorry for themselves, who complains on my blog about my situation instead of sucking it up and getting on with it. But that's the problem with chronic illness – you can't always suck it up because you're ... well, you're not well. I am the type of person who you cannot begin to understand because my illness is invisible and it's chronic and you can look at me and say, "But you look so well!" while I feel sick, and poisoned, and toxic and unhealthy. I'm the type of person who is in bed for part of the day and then suddenly cleaning the bathroom at 10pm because I'm feeling up to it and feeling good and I want to contribute, and be useful, not a liability.
But I am the kind of person who has got myself into a bind so that before I can impose my small and defeated self upon the Department of Human Services I first have to fill in three tax returns and lodge them before I make a claim to the ATO to tell them that yes, paying this tax would mean that I would be not buying food or paying rent or paying for medications for myself. Yes, it surely would, and would they mind it if I didn't pay it at all, or else if I paid it in lump sum installments? And some most likely faceless person working in the cogs of those machinations will decide my future. And whichever way it pans out, I will feel shit. And some will judge me for not contributing.
Because there’s nothing we’re scared of more than someone else getting away with something we can’t.
But if it makes you feel better, whatever the ATO decides I will feel like I want to curl up into a small ball in the corner, a ball so small that I will complete some amazing magic trick of scientific law-defying and disappear into my very own black hole of economic unviability.
I am in the process of applying for a disability pension. It is horrible enough filling in page after page of personal details for faceless bureaucracy. If I wasn't feeling small and losery and ashamed to begin with, this process would instill in me the levels of shame required for those who will claim support from the government. After all, you cannot make this process too easy or else everybody will be rushing from their cubicles onto the social security bandwagon.
As a further insult to my flaccid confidence levels, as part of my application I have to provide details of my sole trader economic status for the transcription work I've been doing from home for the past three years. Problem with that is that I haven't been keeping up with my tax payments. Money’s tight, especially when you have a chronic illness, and managing my money well has never been one of my strong suits. Which adds to my already flailing confidence because we are expected to juggle fiscal balls along with all the others imposed upon us by a system that serves those at the top far better than it suits me at the bottom. If we don't perform well in the areas that have been assigned to us as recognised markers of adultness – like being able to earn dosh – then we are failures, even if we happen to write some pretty good poetry, even if we say so ourselves.
This system pits its slaves one against the other, so that rather than feel sympathy for someone who’s struggling some may well be inclined to look down on me for being a financial mismanager. It may be an occasion for them to pat themselves on the back, glad that they are not me. It will also serve the purpose of getting them to focus on me, instead of the system we live under. It serves its purpose well, (although there are signs of it crumpling round the edges as more and more of us question why the way we live is so completely alienating to us, the tellers of our own stories).
Some may be inclined to be glad they’re not me because of my chronic illness/pension-claiming/tax-dodging status. Hell, I would. Being me is not something you aspire to. Unemployable (apparently, if job applications are anything to go by), I have been out on the edge of financial vulnerability for years. I am the type of person who perpetuates that starving artist in the garret scenario by stupidly choosing as their passion writing, which does not pay well, if at all, and which is notoriously difficult to break into, requiring a hide of steel that was not made available to my genetic subset. But then again, we do not seem to choose our passions; they choose us.
I am the type of person who feels sorry for themselves, who complains on my blog about my situation instead of sucking it up and getting on with it. But that's the problem with chronic illness – you can't always suck it up because you're ... well, you're not well. I am the type of person who you cannot begin to understand because my illness is invisible and it's chronic and you can look at me and say, "But you look so well!" while I feel sick, and poisoned, and toxic and unhealthy. I'm the type of person who is in bed for part of the day and then suddenly cleaning the bathroom at 10pm because I'm feeling up to it and feeling good and I want to contribute, and be useful, not a liability.
But I am the kind of person who has got myself into a bind so that before I can impose my small and defeated self upon the Department of Human Services I first have to fill in three tax returns and lodge them before I make a claim to the ATO to tell them that yes, paying this tax would mean that I would be not buying food or paying rent or paying for medications for myself. Yes, it surely would, and would they mind it if I didn't pay it at all, or else if I paid it in lump sum installments? And some most likely faceless person working in the cogs of those machinations will decide my future. And whichever way it pans out, I will feel shit. And some will judge me for not contributing.
Because there’s nothing we’re scared of more than someone else getting away with something we can’t.
But if it makes you feel better, whatever the ATO decides I will feel like I want to curl up into a small ball in the corner, a ball so small that I will complete some amazing magic trick of scientific law-defying and disappear into my very own black hole of economic unviability.
I've felt it so strongly, for such a long time. Our native language is not spoken here. Not readily. Oh, some brave souls do. More and more as time goes on, even though others misunderstand them and ridicule them. But even though it is our native language they speak, and I drink it like water, when I read or hear their words they still sound funny. Almost as if I should be ashamed to hear them spoken out into the air, speaking of childish things.
Even though it is our native language, forming the words feels weird in the light of the shape my mouth is in after speaking the other language. That's the one we've been asked forever to speak. It troubles our souls from the day we're born and then blames us for being troubled. "Speak like this," the latest god says. But I've never felt at home in it. Its words itched. They separated, divided, conquered. Many of us have been impaled on its spikes because we forgot that our native language was real. It was more real than the language the latest god has asked us to speak. The latest god said, "This is the only possible way that you can see." And we accepted what he said because that's what we are wired to do, to accept authority. Even though it itched, and it quieted what should not be quieted.
"That language is primitive," the latest god said. "Follow my way." And even though we didn't like it we did, and it took us years to be able to admit that as we followed along behind the latest god what we really were seeing was his bare naked arse. Because apparently no one else was seeing it. And anyway, the only way we could speak about the nakedness of the latest god would be to translate it into our native language, the old one, the one we have forgotten, and then translate it back into the latest god's language. And when that happened the words sounded weird.
And anyway, the latest god tells me that there is no space or room or time or necessity to see things in these old-fashioned ways - to see things as connected, to desire to do things for love. And so for years you have felt this golden thread that connects you all is some weird mystical thing that you have to be a bit embarrassed about. "Those are primitive concepts," the latest god says, "childish things, and you must put them away if you want to get ahead. There is no space or room or time or necessity for those things that make your heart beat faster, or that enable you to see the person in front of you and the earth below your feet as anything other than elements completely separate from you, elements which you must transfer into goods and services to make money from." This is what the latest god says because he has one eye in the middle of his forehead, like the chick from Futurama, and that eye has blinkers on either side of it so he can't look from left to right. The latest god is like a giant head connected to a giant arse, that has spewed his shit all over the earth.
We are addicted to the latest god in the same murderous way that a diabetic is addicted to sugar. But the latest god he has brought us so much, we cry. We think that we have one eye in the middle of our forehead with blinkers on, too, and that all those things we yearn for are stupid.
But still we know, deep down. Hundreds of thousands of years of ancestral knowing flood through our veins, and they know.
I listen to the news and the subjects of the latest god are talking about his dominion and about his growth and expansion. The latest god is standing right beside them with his testicles hanging in the breeze like an ancient old man whose time has come, but they are blind. They are terrified because they have forgotten how to speak their native language too. There are no purple robes for them to wear in that land, and they have not yet developed the synapses that link the thirst they feel in their mouths to the words they have forgotten from since before they could speak.
But some have. Like here, for example:
.
Even though it is our native language, forming the words feels weird in the light of the shape my mouth is in after speaking the other language. That's the one we've been asked forever to speak. It troubles our souls from the day we're born and then blames us for being troubled. "Speak like this," the latest god says. But I've never felt at home in it. Its words itched. They separated, divided, conquered. Many of us have been impaled on its spikes because we forgot that our native language was real. It was more real than the language the latest god has asked us to speak. The latest god said, "This is the only possible way that you can see." And we accepted what he said because that's what we are wired to do, to accept authority. Even though it itched, and it quieted what should not be quieted.
"That language is primitive," the latest god said. "Follow my way." And even though we didn't like it we did, and it took us years to be able to admit that as we followed along behind the latest god what we really were seeing was his bare naked arse. Because apparently no one else was seeing it. And anyway, the only way we could speak about the nakedness of the latest god would be to translate it into our native language, the old one, the one we have forgotten, and then translate it back into the latest god's language. And when that happened the words sounded weird.
And anyway, the latest god tells me that there is no space or room or time or necessity to see things in these old-fashioned ways - to see things as connected, to desire to do things for love. And so for years you have felt this golden thread that connects you all is some weird mystical thing that you have to be a bit embarrassed about. "Those are primitive concepts," the latest god says, "childish things, and you must put them away if you want to get ahead. There is no space or room or time or necessity for those things that make your heart beat faster, or that enable you to see the person in front of you and the earth below your feet as anything other than elements completely separate from you, elements which you must transfer into goods and services to make money from." This is what the latest god says because he has one eye in the middle of his forehead, like the chick from Futurama, and that eye has blinkers on either side of it so he can't look from left to right. The latest god is like a giant head connected to a giant arse, that has spewed his shit all over the earth.
We are addicted to the latest god in the same murderous way that a diabetic is addicted to sugar. But the latest god he has brought us so much, we cry. We think that we have one eye in the middle of our forehead with blinkers on, too, and that all those things we yearn for are stupid.
But still we know, deep down. Hundreds of thousands of years of ancestral knowing flood through our veins, and they know.
I listen to the news and the subjects of the latest god are talking about his dominion and about his growth and expansion. The latest god is standing right beside them with his testicles hanging in the breeze like an ancient old man whose time has come, but they are blind. They are terrified because they have forgotten how to speak their native language too. There are no purple robes for them to wear in that land, and they have not yet developed the synapses that link the thirst they feel in their mouths to the words they have forgotten from since before they could speak.
But some have. Like here, for example:
Gee, it's gotten serious in Susieland the last few days. Worrying about money will do that to you, I guess. I've been more broke than ever recently and so this has been part of the decision to begin working from home. Doing the same dull drear, but being able to slip it and slide it in at my own behest is a freedom I am taking great pleasure in. It's also partly the reason why I have been blogging far less recently.
Still trying to find the rhythm.
Working from home, I am able to work more hours more easily. Because I need to ramp it up now. It's time to do that. But I have been ramping it up a little the past month and I don't really have anything to show for it right now. All this financial bizzo makes Susie stressed. Far better a personality geared to bartering, but what do you do?
And now Olive, my up-to-now well-behaved 1998 car has blown a gasket - well, not quite. She's worn out her crank shaft and her crank shaft gear and bottom pulley. Apparently. Cos I mean, how do you know? Do I feel exposed and vulnerable when having my car fixed? Yes, yes I do. Do I need to dwell on the possibility that I may be being fleeced out of 650 bucks I don't really have? Naw, I guess I really don't.
So working more hours in the land of Susie but so far it not really paying off could get a bit depressing. It did this morning, I must say. I have been working from home for a month but I am still finding my rhythm. Life has suddenly gotten a lot busier. And so all I can do is continue what I am doing. Soon I hope I shall be able to begin to save some money (what a concept).
But it can all get a little serious a little to easily. Therefore, so much better to turn my mind to the things that make me happy, to look forward to the weekend, to seeing my man, to make space in my head for the very things that I feel I don't I have time for.
And so hence this afternoon I flit about inside the playroom that has now really become a workroom. And from the computer comes a column pitching idea to a local daily, comes two short stories that I have waited far too long to send out into the world once again, to writing a little something Jungian about a dream I had, to doing a little yoga, to blog. To gaze at the beautiful bunch of long stemmed red roses sitting on my desk.
The things, in short, that I do not believe I have any time to do. Or any business doing. Or that will make any difference.
The things that make me feel alive. That scare the hell out of me :)
Life's too short to fall into the well of seriousness about all of this stuff. But even beyond that, I am very mindful of my energy levels, as a post-CFSer. Sometimes it's physical. But sometimes it's psychical. Sometimes my energy levels are directly related to the blockages that are still being dislodged from within me, the dastardly amount of internal voices that stop me from doing what I want to do most.
It's those internal bastards I have in my sights right now. And, miracle of amazing miracles, amongst the dirty dishes and the too-long-between clay binges and the joy and happiness that is a new romance there is also this - this ongoing dismantling of those things that have held me captive. An everyday sort of a miracle. Sometime very amazing.
I am Ariadne, and I am Theseus, and I am the Minotaur. But one of us is on the way out.
Still trying to find the rhythm.
Working from home, I am able to work more hours more easily. Because I need to ramp it up now. It's time to do that. But I have been ramping it up a little the past month and I don't really have anything to show for it right now. All this financial bizzo makes Susie stressed. Far better a personality geared to bartering, but what do you do?
And now Olive, my up-to-now well-behaved 1998 car has blown a gasket - well, not quite. She's worn out her crank shaft and her crank shaft gear and bottom pulley. Apparently. Cos I mean, how do you know? Do I feel exposed and vulnerable when having my car fixed? Yes, yes I do. Do I need to dwell on the possibility that I may be being fleeced out of 650 bucks I don't really have? Naw, I guess I really don't.
So working more hours in the land of Susie but so far it not really paying off could get a bit depressing. It did this morning, I must say. I have been working from home for a month but I am still finding my rhythm. Life has suddenly gotten a lot busier. And so all I can do is continue what I am doing. Soon I hope I shall be able to begin to save some money (what a concept).
But it can all get a little serious a little to easily. Therefore, so much better to turn my mind to the things that make me happy, to look forward to the weekend, to seeing my man, to make space in my head for the very things that I feel I don't I have time for.
And so hence this afternoon I flit about inside the playroom that has now really become a workroom. And from the computer comes a column pitching idea to a local daily, comes two short stories that I have waited far too long to send out into the world once again, to writing a little something Jungian about a dream I had, to doing a little yoga, to blog. To gaze at the beautiful bunch of long stemmed red roses sitting on my desk.
The things that make me feel alive. That scare the hell out of me :)
Life's too short to fall into the well of seriousness about all of this stuff. But even beyond that, I am very mindful of my energy levels, as a post-CFSer. Sometimes it's physical. But sometimes it's psychical. Sometimes my energy levels are directly related to the blockages that are still being dislodged from within me, the dastardly amount of internal voices that stop me from doing what I want to do most.
It's those internal bastards I have in my sights right now. And, miracle of amazing miracles, amongst the dirty dishes and the too-long-between clay binges and the joy and happiness that is a new romance there is also this - this ongoing dismantling of those things that have held me captive. An everyday sort of a miracle. Sometime very amazing.
I am Ariadne, and I am Theseus, and I am the Minotaur. But one of us is on the way out.
I don't know why I feel disappointed. I got a letter from my landlord advising me of the next rental increase in line with his "review of the rental market." So as of December, my rent goes up another $65 a month. I suppose that's okay. I can cope with an extra $15 a week if I must. Why do I feel annoyed then?
I don't think that people "getting ahead", whatever that means for them, is necessarily a bad thing. It does frustrate me a bit, though, despite intellectually knowing that, that my landlord advised me in a letter about the rent increase instead of giving me a call. But I don't know why I'm feeling frustrated about that either. It's the way things are done. Informing me in writing probably satisfies legal requirements, and then I have the information there at my disposal. Maybe I'm just a bit old-fashioned in believing that someone I shared grounds with for a year and a half or however long it was wouldn't give me a call first.
But this is the way things are done when you are a landlord. You get to increase your tenants' rent in line with your "review of the rental market". Apparently it's been a year since my rent increase. I'm not so sure about that and I'm going to go back over my records and check, just to satisfy myself. But I can't help feeling irritated that Nigel is going to go for every dollar legitimately due to him. Yes, I know. It's his right, right? I guess what is frustrating me is that Nigel is living in a flat with his fiancee, who I think pretty much owns it outright. He has also rented out his house to the three guys who are currently living there. And he works full-time, and so does his fiancee. I would imagine they would be pretty comfortable.
But then, who am I to whinge? I should just be grateful I have anywhere to live at all, in this current rental market that is squeezed so tight. Lots of people have nowhere to live at all.
I don't know why I'm complaining. I really have no right to. Am I jealous? I don't know. Maybe a little. I guess I would like to be in their position, sure. Maybe if I was in their position I would be increasing my tenants' rent every year too. It's only fair. It's only in line with "the current rental market". I remember in my earlier incarnation as the wife of an accountant, when we were looking pretty cosy, when I was in line to buy a house, when I knew that I would pretty much have no financial worries, that it didn't feel as good as I would have hoped. It felt stranely deadening really, and I can't say I felt any more secure about the future than I do now that I have no money at all. But of course, this is a ridiculous thing to say because when I retire and I have no money, in the future, if teh world is existing in its current form by then ... well, having cash behind you is a good thing, right?
Yes, it's true. My irritations aren't so much about people who have savings. Having savings is a good thing. If more people had savings and less people had credit, then we wouldn't be in the financial mess we are in. My irritations are with people who place their faith in financial security - it's a bottomless pit. You never feel secure enough. As many people are finding out these days.
So it would be the right thing to write a letter to my tenants informing them of their rent increase. It is procedure. But it would also be convenient that I wouldn't have to look them in the eye while telling them of said rent increase because I couldn't help myself - I would feel guilty, somehow, knowing that I was doing so much better than the people I was charging extra money to.
But all's fair in a gettng-ahead society, right? After all, it not their fault if I am struggling financially. I am single and living alone in a house that has two bedrooms. It is my choice to live alone because I like the space. As it was my choice to leave my husband. And I'm pretty sure that I could put in extra hours if I tried a bit harder, at least in the weeks and months when my health feels more stable. So it's nobody's fault that I don't have extra money flying around. I don't even feel like it's mine, either. It's not a blaming issue, it's just the way it is. And anyway, as childish as it may sound to some, I feel like God is there for me when it comes to finances.
So yeah, I'm not complaining about the reality of things. It's not even that much of a big deal, I suppose, that my rent is increasing by an extra $65 a month. That's not much at all. I guess it's not so much the rent increase, it's the clnical efficiency of the way we do things in this society. That's what really gets to me.
But then, I am ridiculously idealistic.
I don't think that people "getting ahead", whatever that means for them, is necessarily a bad thing. It does frustrate me a bit, though, despite intellectually knowing that, that my landlord advised me in a letter about the rent increase instead of giving me a call. But I don't know why I'm feeling frustrated about that either. It's the way things are done. Informing me in writing probably satisfies legal requirements, and then I have the information there at my disposal. Maybe I'm just a bit old-fashioned in believing that someone I shared grounds with for a year and a half or however long it was wouldn't give me a call first.
But this is the way things are done when you are a landlord. You get to increase your tenants' rent in line with your "review of the rental market". Apparently it's been a year since my rent increase. I'm not so sure about that and I'm going to go back over my records and check, just to satisfy myself. But I can't help feeling irritated that Nigel is going to go for every dollar legitimately due to him. Yes, I know. It's his right, right? I guess what is frustrating me is that Nigel is living in a flat with his fiancee, who I think pretty much owns it outright. He has also rented out his house to the three guys who are currently living there. And he works full-time, and so does his fiancee. I would imagine they would be pretty comfortable.
But then, who am I to whinge? I should just be grateful I have anywhere to live at all, in this current rental market that is squeezed so tight. Lots of people have nowhere to live at all.
I don't know why I'm complaining. I really have no right to. Am I jealous? I don't know. Maybe a little. I guess I would like to be in their position, sure. Maybe if I was in their position I would be increasing my tenants' rent every year too. It's only fair. It's only in line with "the current rental market". I remember in my earlier incarnation as the wife of an accountant, when we were looking pretty cosy, when I was in line to buy a house, when I knew that I would pretty much have no financial worries, that it didn't feel as good as I would have hoped. It felt stranely deadening really, and I can't say I felt any more secure about the future than I do now that I have no money at all. But of course, this is a ridiculous thing to say because when I retire and I have no money, in the future, if teh world is existing in its current form by then ... well, having cash behind you is a good thing, right?
Yes, it's true. My irritations aren't so much about people who have savings. Having savings is a good thing. If more people had savings and less people had credit, then we wouldn't be in the financial mess we are in. My irritations are with people who place their faith in financial security - it's a bottomless pit. You never feel secure enough. As many people are finding out these days.
So it would be the right thing to write a letter to my tenants informing them of their rent increase. It is procedure. But it would also be convenient that I wouldn't have to look them in the eye while telling them of said rent increase because I couldn't help myself - I would feel guilty, somehow, knowing that I was doing so much better than the people I was charging extra money to.
But all's fair in a gettng-ahead society, right? After all, it not their fault if I am struggling financially. I am single and living alone in a house that has two bedrooms. It is my choice to live alone because I like the space. As it was my choice to leave my husband. And I'm pretty sure that I could put in extra hours if I tried a bit harder, at least in the weeks and months when my health feels more stable. So it's nobody's fault that I don't have extra money flying around. I don't even feel like it's mine, either. It's not a blaming issue, it's just the way it is. And anyway, as childish as it may sound to some, I feel like God is there for me when it comes to finances.
So yeah, I'm not complaining about the reality of things. It's not even that much of a big deal, I suppose, that my rent is increasing by an extra $65 a month. That's not much at all. I guess it's not so much the rent increase, it's the clnical efficiency of the way we do things in this society. That's what really gets to me.
But then, I am ridiculously idealistic.
I covet your opinions about bill splitting, dear bloggers.
The deal is this: I live in a little two bedroom place which is on the same property as the main house. My landlord used to live in that house, and when it was just him there and just me here, we would just split the bills down the middle. Easy. Even when his girlfriend moved in, we still just split them by thirds, and it didn't worry me too much.
However, he has now moved out and has tenants in the house. The bills have been transferred to my name, and we've just received a few so I need to go and talk to them and work out how we are going to split them. Problem is, I can't work out what is fair. They are all so utterly polite that I am worried tat they won't really tell me what they think is fair or unfair.
Do you think it's fair if we split them all amongst ourselves? That means that I get to have all the the lights to myself, whereas they share their lighting amongst each other. So therefore is it fair that I only pay for one fifth of the lighting when in some ways you could say that I am using half of it? But then again, on the other hand, there is more than one person there, so they would be using more lighting.
But then when it comes to the gas, the heating, it feels easier to just split it down the middle because there is one heater there and one heater here. Easy. Same with the water. Split right down the middle.
It's just the electricity that I'm not so sure about how to split it. I need to go and talk to them about it but they are so incredibly polite, being Indian, that I am not sure that they will tell me what they really think about it all. What do you guys think?
There are officially two of them in there but I actually think there are three of them living there. That is one reason why I am procrastinating about talking to them about the bills. If we split them between us, then I will have to find out from them how many of them are living there.
The deal is this: I live in a little two bedroom place which is on the same property as the main house. My landlord used to live in that house, and when it was just him there and just me here, we would just split the bills down the middle. Easy. Even when his girlfriend moved in, we still just split them by thirds, and it didn't worry me too much.
However, he has now moved out and has tenants in the house. The bills have been transferred to my name, and we've just received a few so I need to go and talk to them and work out how we are going to split them. Problem is, I can't work out what is fair. They are all so utterly polite that I am worried tat they won't really tell me what they think is fair or unfair.
Do you think it's fair if we split them all amongst ourselves? That means that I get to have all the the lights to myself, whereas they share their lighting amongst each other. So therefore is it fair that I only pay for one fifth of the lighting when in some ways you could say that I am using half of it? But then again, on the other hand, there is more than one person there, so they would be using more lighting.
But then when it comes to the gas, the heating, it feels easier to just split it down the middle because there is one heater there and one heater here. Easy. Same with the water. Split right down the middle.
It's just the electricity that I'm not so sure about how to split it. I need to go and talk to them about it but they are so incredibly polite, being Indian, that I am not sure that they will tell me what they really think about it all. What do you guys think?
There are officially two of them in there but I actually think there are three of them living there. That is one reason why I am procrastinating about talking to them about the bills. If we split them between us, then I will have to find out from them how many of them are living there.
Synchroblog: Money and the Church
You can't really blame the institutionalised elements of the Church for having the unnerving ability to turn our freedom in Christ into principles and programs, rules and regulations that start resembling Old Testament temple practices as soon as our backs are turned. It goes with the territory, whenever the structure is allowed to usurp the focus on the people who really are the Church. But of course, the problem really lies deeper. It goes all the way down to our own tendency to want to reduce God down to manageable size. Sometimes he is just damn scary with his unknowableness, his disarming tendency to ask us to do things we don't want to, to just invade everything. We want him small enough to put in our pockets. I think we can safely call this part of us our flesh ;) It doesn't love freedom half as much as our spirit does.
So many church building groups seem unwilling to see how the concept of the tithe is just not really anywhere in the New Testament. The thing is, it's in the interests of church buildings to have a tithe. They need their people to contribute to them to keep them going, keep the full-time pastor paid, keep the lawns watered, the electricity bill paid for. On and on it goes. Anyway - it's only right that those who frequent the building regularly should contribute towards its upkeep. I just don't think that the people who do this should brush off their hands when they put their 10% in the offering plate on a Sunday morning and think that they have done the "Lord's work". What they have done is contribute maintenance towards a gathering that they frequent. That's all.
What would happen if we took our 10% principle, our "God won't bless you financially unless you give him his due" law (purlease; do you really think God is that small?) and instead expanded the conceptions, regarding everything as his already? Not only the cattle on a thousand hills. And what about if we expanded it even further again and thought that not only is it all his, but it's all a gift. For us. A generous gift from a generous god who is not interested in skimping. I suspect our flesh's preference for a 10% tithe reflects our deep dark thoughts in the middle of the night that maybe God is not as generous as we would like or need him to be, nor as kind. If we are dealing with a nasty, small god, then of course our flesh finds it easier to bury our talents in the offering plate, because it's safer; then we've "done our bit" and God can't call us onto the carpet and accuse us of not giving him his due.
What happens if God's ideas of how he would like us to use our money are more fluid than giving our 10%? What if it's more organic, less able to be reduced down to an Excel spreadsheet? What happens if one week he doesn't ask us to give him any money (perish the thought!), but the next week asks us to give the homeless bloke on the corner 100 bucks, or to donate the same to a micro finance project, or to just put away in our purses and wallets and see if he won't give us directives on where he would like us to give it? What would happen if we took our "tithes" to the streets, to the current day "widows and orphans" instead of using them to keep the plumbing going, or nice new downlights for buildings that less and less people are frequenting anyway (have we noticed?)
Maybe God is more good than we thought he was, more kind, more generous and more giving. What would happen if we as the Church began flirting with the idea that God really is the kind of god that wants us to jump into his lap and call him Papa? What then? Then our fists would loosen.
_________________________
This is part of a synchroblog. The other contributors are listed below. Follow the links, and watch the fur fly!
Greed and Bitterness at Square No More by Phil Wyman
But I Gave at Church at The Assembling of the Church by Alan Knox
Moving Out of Jesus Neighborhood at Be the Revolution by David Fisher
Money and the Church: why the big fuss? at Mike's Musings by Mike Bursell
Bullshit at The Agent B Files by Agent B
The Bourgeois Elephant... at Headspace by Lainie Petersen
The Church and Money at Khayna by Steve Hayes
Pushing The Camel at Fenando's Desk by Fernando Gros
Lord, Won't You Buy Me a Mercedes Benz at Hello Said Jenelle by Jenelle D'Alessandro
Walking with the Camels at Calacirian by Sonja Andrews
Money and the Church: A Fulltime Story at The Pursuit by Lew A
Coffee Hour Morality at One Hand Clapping by Julie Clawson
Bling Bling in the Holy of Holies at In Reba's World by Reba Baskett
Money's too tight to mention at Out of the Cocoon by Paul Walker
When the Church Gives at Payneful Memories by Leah
Greed at Hollow Again by Dan Allen
Magazinial Outreach at Decompressing Faith by Erin
Silver and Gold Have We - Oops at Subversive Influence by Brother Maynard
What if We had Nothing by Tim Abbott
Who, or What, Do You Worship at Charis Shalom by Bryan Riley
Zach at Johhny Beloved by Zach Forrest
Wealth Amidst Powers at Theocity by Kirk Bartha
You can't really blame the institutionalised elements of the Church for having the unnerving ability to turn our freedom in Christ into principles and programs, rules and regulations that start resembling Old Testament temple practices as soon as our backs are turned. It goes with the territory, whenever the structure is allowed to usurp the focus on the people who really are the Church. But of course, the problem really lies deeper. It goes all the way down to our own tendency to want to reduce God down to manageable size. Sometimes he is just damn scary with his unknowableness, his disarming tendency to ask us to do things we don't want to, to just invade everything. We want him small enough to put in our pockets. I think we can safely call this part of us our flesh ;) It doesn't love freedom half as much as our spirit does.
So many church building groups seem unwilling to see how the concept of the tithe is just not really anywhere in the New Testament. The thing is, it's in the interests of church buildings to have a tithe. They need their people to contribute to them to keep them going, keep the full-time pastor paid, keep the lawns watered, the electricity bill paid for. On and on it goes. Anyway - it's only right that those who frequent the building regularly should contribute towards its upkeep. I just don't think that the people who do this should brush off their hands when they put their 10% in the offering plate on a Sunday morning and think that they have done the "Lord's work". What they have done is contribute maintenance towards a gathering that they frequent. That's all.
What would happen if we took our 10% principle, our "God won't bless you financially unless you give him his due" law (purlease; do you really think God is that small?) and instead expanded the conceptions, regarding everything as his already? Not only the cattle on a thousand hills. And what about if we expanded it even further again and thought that not only is it all his, but it's all a gift. For us. A generous gift from a generous god who is not interested in skimping. I suspect our flesh's preference for a 10% tithe reflects our deep dark thoughts in the middle of the night that maybe God is not as generous as we would like or need him to be, nor as kind. If we are dealing with a nasty, small god, then of course our flesh finds it easier to bury our talents in the offering plate, because it's safer; then we've "done our bit" and God can't call us onto the carpet and accuse us of not giving him his due.
What happens if God's ideas of how he would like us to use our money are more fluid than giving our 10%? What if it's more organic, less able to be reduced down to an Excel spreadsheet? What happens if one week he doesn't ask us to give him any money (perish the thought!), but the next week asks us to give the homeless bloke on the corner 100 bucks, or to donate the same to a micro finance project, or to just put away in our purses and wallets and see if he won't give us directives on where he would like us to give it? What would happen if we took our "tithes" to the streets, to the current day "widows and orphans" instead of using them to keep the plumbing going, or nice new downlights for buildings that less and less people are frequenting anyway (have we noticed?)
Maybe God is more good than we thought he was, more kind, more generous and more giving. What would happen if we as the Church began flirting with the idea that God really is the kind of god that wants us to jump into his lap and call him Papa? What then? Then our fists would loosen.
_________________________
This is part of a synchroblog. The other contributors are listed below. Follow the links, and watch the fur fly!
The Check That Controls at Igneous Quill by Adam Gonnerman
Trusting God: A New Perspective at Eternal Echoes by Sally ColemanGreed and Bitterness at Square No More by Phil Wyman
But I Gave at Church at The Assembling of the Church by Alan Knox
Moving Out of Jesus Neighborhood at Be the Revolution by David Fisher
Money and the Church: why the big fuss? at Mike's Musings by Mike Bursell
Bullshit at The Agent B Files by Agent B
The Bourgeois Elephant... at Headspace by Lainie Petersen
The Church and Money at Khayna by Steve Hayes
Pushing The Camel at Fenando's Desk by Fernando Gros
Lord, Won't You Buy Me a Mercedes Benz at Hello Said Jenelle by Jenelle D'Alessandro
Walking with the Camels at Calacirian by Sonja Andrews
Money and the Church: A Fulltime Story at The Pursuit by Lew A
Coffee Hour Morality at One Hand Clapping by Julie Clawson
Bling Bling in the Holy of Holies at In Reba's World by Reba Baskett
Money's too tight to mention at Out of the Cocoon by Paul Walker
When the Church Gives at Payneful Memories by Leah
Greed at Hollow Again by Dan Allen
Magazinial Outreach at Decompressing Faith by Erin
Silver and Gold Have We - Oops at Subversive Influence by Brother Maynard
What if We had Nothing by Tim Abbott
Who, or What, Do You Worship at Charis Shalom by Bryan Riley
Zach at Johhny Beloved by Zach Forrest
Wealth Amidst Powers at Theocity by Kirk Bartha
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