A Day of Duties

We all live in a world where we have tasks to complete and responsibilities to uphold. At home, at work, in the street, in public places — everywhere we go, we have to abide to certain rules and regulations. We call it law and order, control and regulations. We call ourselves civilized because we follow rules we set upon ourselves.

And it so happens that these rules and regulations are aplenty, and as a consequence we get to prioritize our needs, our tasks based on the rules that we insist on. For instance, I have a task to complete by the end of the day. It’s office work, urgent and my job depends on it. On the other hand, my wife is pregnant and we’re expecting the baby any day now. To cap the situation, my boss is out of town, and wouldn’t know even if I put off the task ’til tomorrow. I just pinged my boss, affirming that I’d finish the job when my phone rings — it’s my wife.

According to the “rules” I should stick to morals, which is to finish the job. Because a) my wife didn’t sound distressed. Yet. And b) my mom’s at home taking care of my wife. It’s understandable if I go home a little late.

But when I weigh my priorities, my wife and child are my life. My job just feeds my stomach, but my family feeds my soul.

In that moment of urge, I drop my work — no one would know anyway — and head home. The baby doesn’t come for another 36 hours. But I was there, with my family, supporting my wife. And that meant the whole world to me.

Which is all nice and emotional.

Now what happens to my boss? He was expecting a reply tonight, and I wasn’t there. He called me, and I didn’t pick up. I knew he would be furious with me. He must’ve tried to contact me online, offline and through my colleagues. And all he would’ve got was an ignoring bastard.

Did I have a choice? Could I have told him how important it was for me to be with my family? Sure I could have, but he wouldn’t have understood. Because his children are grown ups, he was a widower, and had nothing to home to.

His work was his life. And he wouldn’t understand when someone else insisted that their work wasn’t their life.

And so, I ignored him. But I couldn’t ignore my job; I checked in on work from my mobile phone from the hospital cafeteria. My boss had left messages and mails. All he wanted was a response. And all I wanted was my wife to remain strong.

I spoke to a few of my colleagues, asked them to cover for me. They said they would, but I know they wouldn’t hold under pressure — they have families too.

The truth is, my job is vital. I’ll lose everything if I lose my job. I am well aware of it. I have no back up plans. But my family was important too. I was torn between the two, until I decided to choose my family. And now to defend my choice, I have to run away from the truth that keeps threatening my next rise and paycheck.

Don’t we all do that sometimes? Run away from the truth hoping that ignoring it might somehow make it go away?

*Fiction. Really. Replace the ‘family’ with movie marathon, and that sounds more like me.

Reworking

We think much and scrutinize on details. We’re always poring over our work with such intense repetition, until we often get lost in it.

It’s satisfying – to turn over and look at your own work, with pride swelling within your chest. It’s gratifying — to know that your work is worthy of recognition.

But to get there, we need to peer at our work. Sometimes we ask others to look into it, all the while pondering on that word choice or the particular shade of blue. Something stronger? Bold, perhaps?

It’s natural. We’re engineered that way — to rework and to reconsider. To recycle, rewrite, to recommission. And recommend.

But that thirst for precision, that repetitive craving to improve could also become our downfall. Because the longer we work on something, the more accustomed to it we get. Repetition breeds expertise. At the expense of a mundane life.

Remember the thrill of learning crocheting? The details! The scrutiny, the absolution at every twist of the fingers — everything about it filled you with excitement and anticipation. It was the perfect summer course.

But then, imagine having to do that everyday for the rest of your life.

We’d still be looking for that precision, but now it’ll be pronounced. We’d be so used to redoing that we’d be redoing just for the sake of redoing and not for the thrill that it once was.

And therein lies the risk of repetition.

When There’s Nothing Else to Do

Sometimes, you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. And if wine’s the way to go, what’ve you got to do?

Shakespeare, the Marketeer

For a long time, people have believed that writing and marketing are two different entities.

Marketing is the art of selling stuff to people. And writing — well writing is just bleeding.

But we’ve also seen great writers shine as great marketeers too. And who else should I point out than the beloved Shakespeare himself? (or herself?!)

We know Shakespeare was a good writer. We also know — but don’t accept it — that he was one of the greatest marketeers in history.

I’m not exaggerating.

People have said for ages that good content sells itself. But people have said that for ages without realizing what it meant.

Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets became successful because they were good. But good as in, not with perfect grammar and flawless sentence structure. Shakespeare didn’t care for grammar rules; he took the license and brandished it with such fierceness in the face of the literary world. He violated every rule in the grammar book. He wrote dialogues in poetry, and invented words to suit his personal situations.

He played with spelling, he altered rules, he teased restrictions — but his works were good. And the state approved of them.

So how did Shakespeare manage to sell his “faulty” works to such a well-educated state — to what we now call the golden age of Literature?

Shakespeare cared naught for the templates. It didn’t matter what the rule book said, because he didn’t write for the rule book.

Shakespeare wrote for the people.

He wrote for the poor people, for the uneducated, for the drunk, for the sober, for men drunk with love and for the women behind tapestries.

And he wrote about people. He wrote about envious kings, doubtful husbands, about runaway lovers, of boy kings and tomboys.

Shakespeare wrote for the people.

His works spoke about being human. He created vulnerable stories, he spoke about the things that are in our minds all day. He spoke about sex, about money, about greed and passion. He spoke to our souls, to our inner most feelings. His words resonated with us, and we related to them.

And that’s why Shakespeare sparks excitement in us. And that’s why, even centuries later, you have to spend more than a handful to get your hands on Shakespeare’s works. If that doesn’t make him one of the greatest marketeers in history, I don’t know what does.

Lucky Accidents

What’s the purpose of birth?

It’s a zen-like rhetorical question, but like they say, everything has a purpose.

How about an accident? I like to look at accidents and huge catastrophes – sad though they are – as Nature’s way of clearing up the world; as a way of weeding out ripe lives so as to make room for fresh ones.

But what happens when birth itself is an accident? Is it just Nature’s way of telling us there’s still something left to experience? We’ll never know, unless we pay attention.

Rate this:

Rate this:

Rate this:

Rate this:

Rate this: