A customer of my employer, the restaurant, recently asked a friend of mine, a colleague, if he was happy at his “dead end job.” She tossed a knife at that chef, that baker, that artist; verbal carving, a utility for slicing, paring, she chucked her thoughtless cleaver; which he told me had hacked his heart. Yes, she’s a fool, yes, she’s unhappy with her own bum, dead end, and wants to make sure all are with her.
A Dead End, it has, this life; every life will arrive at that locale, station, hard stop, but that cannot be the meaning of the short word, life. It’s a brief time. Wonder
what
the
purpose
may be. On the radio a show is sponsored by a foundation that states it believes that all should have the chance of a productive life. To produce what, I ask, always. Luckily the radio does not answer. I’ve been close to the big dead end, the unexpected stop, and since then questions are the riser of my stage. The answer comes with memories, a
story or,
make up a number,
a zillion stories.
Come on, here’s the job, life. See. Here and now.
Rode
a tricycle, tiny speedy towhead, caped, a towel clothespinned around my neck, rode around the driveway super fast, to save everything, like the hero from the cartoon, Underdog; and I was, still may be. I loved that.
Do what you love, I was told. Thanks Mom. Thanks Dad.
Questioned
why are some deemed better than others. I grew, and the query grew, indeed, inside, engraved on my core, as I was
graded; my thoughts, my hills, steep or simple with some slight lean, I climbed.
Loved reading; Do What You Love.
Ivanhoe, Charlotte’s Web, The Princess and the Goblin–early–and poetry, plays–endless everything–later; read late at night, under the covers, they didn’t miss the flashlight. My light, the words
the pages, beautiful beacons.
Though through the air each day I heard; succeed, more, career, money, penny-saved, endeavor, poor, rich, middle; unending class and learned
Do what you love; on
stage, at
schools
Writing Home-ec Typing Math Acting English French Acting Spanish Latin History Acting Theology Philosophy Acting Theory Poetry Playwrighting Acting Writing, plunging in to class; unending class, working poor, working well, working
with many, on much.
Class culture; social status
what is the purpose?
Do what you love. Thanks Mom. Thanks Dad.
Got on the stage, the play; the life, the death and the story in between. No dead end allowed
on stage.
Made money in any job, discovered I could
Do what I love. Thanks Mom. Thanks Dad.
Dead end labor, takes me to
that guy stuck at his own dead end, Job, who with his problems trudged through and asked,
what the blankety blank it was all about, that unprintable curse question, what was the point of his life after he lost every actual thing? But his story is in another book, I digress.
Dead end job, life is a magnificent dead end job. There we go, and I went, eventually, was graded in every
stage.
Status, who knows; some care, may say it is
better to be, and it rises again, to be what or where?
We do get to the dead end, eventually,
scattered on some ground
buried boxed in still lying lands
housed in a small tomb in Pere Lachaise Cemetery, where a spider web
dangles catching light before a bright red cross that the sun shines through.
Love what you do,
As you live, through each
stage be
you Job or be at job, digress and return, much better than the true egression.
Life, what a magnificent, dead end, job.