Siphoning off joy,
silent fan over my head:
a sterile office.
Blah
Siphoning off joy,
silent fan over my head:
a sterile office.
Tag: workaholics
Remote
Makeshift standing desk,
fresh air, and warmth on my back;
working from my home.
Have a break
Take time out. It’s not a real vacation if you’re reading email or calling in for messages.
Randy Pausch, The Last Lecture
I’m away on holiday for a couple of weeks, and until I get back with more haiku and photographs, I’m sharing some of my favourite quotes. Hope you enjoy!
If you want more, check these out:
Travel haiku | Musings about life | Copywriting adventures
Of working from home
I’m a remote worker. And for the first time in a long time, I spent an entire day at home. Working.
Writing for work, without a break, hoping to get the damn thing finished so I could spend more time writing more stuff—poetry, opinions, random strings of sentences I wish would make a reasonable story.
Then, I’d edit my works in progress, expecting to get a lot done, as much as I could, within my limited daytime.
As I wrote on, my heart longed for the great outdoors. Through my window, soft breeze and cloudy sky called for me. After three months of bushfire smoke haze, the rains of last week had cleared the air and people’s lungs of deadly particles. It was, at last, beautiful outside.
Over the last week, it seemed like summer had decided to call it a day. The temperatures had cooled down, delaying sunrises and expediting sunsets. Though I still saw the light at quarter to eight, the sun had already retired, taking much of the heat with it.
And all the while, I sat on my desk, typing away, taking a minute or two to distract myself on Facebook or to tune into the radio to hear the last of the daily quiz show.
Just as I finished my work stuff, I realised I hadn’t showered in two days. Though my pedestal fan prevented any perspiration, I was still uncomfortable in my own skin. A bath later, I remembered I still had to meal prep for the next couple of days. As the light waned in the garden, I let my imagination and hopes melt in the heat of the stove. All the stirring, sautéing, and the dishwashing that followed left me drained.
Nothing worse than when the body is able, but the mind has already shut down for the day.
I felt claustrophobic, even with so much light and ventilation. It was like being in a cubicle, shut off from the rest of the world. I love my home, but it drove me crazy. It felt wrong not to go out, to interact with people, walk, or rush for the bus. As if everything normal in my life had taken a sudden break, crippling me.
That’s when I realised: working from home is great, as long as you’re not in your home.
The wheel
“Yo cartwheeler!”
That’s what those kids called him. Who could blame them? He was, after all, the man pushing shopping carts at the supermarket. Not that it was anything to be shamed of, he told his reflection every morning navigating floss around his teeth.
But he had a name.
Ruman.
Growing up he’d often wonder if his parents detested his existence so much so as to bestow upon him such an uncharacteristic name. Not a childhood day had gone by without him repeating and spelling it out for people to understand.
And even then perplexity clouded their face whenever they uttered it. As if they’d rather not. As if something wasn’t just quite right.
It was still better than “cartwheeler” he thought.
They even told random shoppers about his nickname, pointing him out, the long, brown, migrant who stumbled through the car park collecting empty carts people thrust away. Shoppers who’d smile jovially at their juvenile innocence—they were just school kids, hanging out at the mall during the holidays.
It was all good fun for everyone, of course. Seasonal cheer hung in their air, overnight rosters hung over his.
Three years of regular supermarket shifts had served him well, though. With the weekends off, he’d taken up to flipping burgers for additional bucks. He was now the proud owner of three high-visibility vests, a third-owner car that needed service, and a son who’d be starting school next year. He was already a year behind others of his age. Ruman’s wife had taken a second job too, to save up for school.
He seldom had time to talk to her.
Never mind. He’d be cartwheeler as long as it took. Nothing mattered more than a good school for his son. Whatever necessary so his son didn’t end up at the mall catcalling another migrant, “Yo cartwheeler!”
The Chaos Within 