End-of-term

So, we’re all sitting around, I’m sort of pissed (from a bit of a bottol of beer, and a bit of a bottil of wine) and life’s okay.  Thing is, I’m in here typing away here, ’cause the girls are out there talking about teaching and I’ve got little to say really and that’s okay and all, and I mean that, it is, but I’m somewhat more into woodwork today, or even programming, but what’s there to say?  Nothing, really, nothing much at any rate.  And because I’m a bit pissed, I’m rather in the mood for going back to WA, or not ‘going back’, but at least being there and being warm.  Yeah, being warm, that’d be nice.  Being warm.  Huzza!  I’d like to be in the bush in the hills in Perth, and with a hand axe making things.  Walking about the place, that’s what I’m thinking; roving, if you will, wandering about the hills, walking into town now and then for food, but mostly just making wood things with simple tools.  A bottle or so of scotch maybe, for evenings by the fire and rolled up in my swag.  That’d be nice.  Or so I think now.  Yeah, I do.  It’d be nice.  Not be all caught up with coding some new thing that I think people’ll use, but in fact they don’t need to use, because what fuckin’ use are computers anyway?  Eh?  What use?!  Bloody none, so’s far as I can see; better we were all growing food, brewing beer, and fucking.  That’s more to the point of life, so’s far as I can see.  But I’ll do this, this degree thing, that’s what I’ll do.  That’s what seems to be useful at the moment.  I think. Maybe.  I’ll live in a little house one day, with my vegies, and I’ll keep a blog probably, because how can one leave what’s been a part of one’s life?  Don’t know.  I’ll keep a blog, or something like that, and contribute to Wikipedia’s woodworking section, and make things out of wood between times, because that’s really where life’s at, for me.  So’s far as I can see.  Which mayn’t be far, that I can say, mayn’t be far, but it’s far enough to see that computer programming’ll get me a ‘safe’ job, with a ‘safe’ income, but what’s it gonna gi’me in the way of joy?!  Of that all-encompassing joy and extreme satisfaction in what one does in a day?!  Dunno.  Seems like it might just be a bit shallow or summint, like it’s missing a bit.  I would be, if I could, wandering, making, writing, and full of the exquisite joy of the life that’s not the life that is told to me.  If that makes sense?  Dunno if it does.  Maybe it does.  Hmmmm…

It might be time for another beer.  That’s something that I’d touch on before, though: drinking.  It’s a thing that releases me from all this hideous worry about What To Do, whether programming is The Thing for me, and I like getting pissed for that reason.  I like it because when I’m a bit drunmk, out of myself somewhat, I feel oh so fucking drawn to making, to walking and being with the world and nature.  I want to hug the wood, hug the night and the day and shout and sing and in any whay I can be an idle singer of an empty day!…  That’d be the thing.  Being here, Canberra, being at uni, these things don’t do it really.  Not really I thinmk…

2 thoughts on “End-of-term”

  1. hi Sam — am rather moved by your “in vino veritas” — specially your computer rant, I feel a bit the same way, it’s so tempting to pour lots of energy and ingenuity into developing some wizzo bit of computer helpfulness (databases in my case), then find that it doesn’t mean much to anyone, and you start thinking “what’s the point?”

    And the degree.. I don’t want to put you off, but when I was working towards a PhD at Stanford, I started asking after a few years, “what’s the point?” which is a very subversive question.. and in the end, I dropped it.

    Reaching the joy has to be what it’s all about..

    Woody Guthrie said “Take it easy — but take it!”

    all best

    Stephen

  2. Thanks Stephen. You’re right, asking the question is subversive, but it can also be so destructive — and in an almost masochistic way, because once we start to ask, to stop is to deprive ourselves of the possibility of finding the answer…

    Once, I gained meaning from wood; now I’m ignoring the wood (in the name of employment; I’ll not call this an education) and to look for meaning hurts — and once it brought joy.

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