Going Postal: Day 8

conques-apes.jpgDay 8: The Reason Why

My apologies for yesterday’s entry. Clearly I was throwing myself a pity party, and felt the need to invite everyone. I think it was the combination of returning to work after two days off, being sick (turns out I have an upper respiratory infection), and that certain people forgot my birthday. I’m not one of those people that gets too bent out of shape when others forget a day that I usually dread, but there were one or two people that let me down (and in case any of you are honestly wondering if you are one of these people, you most likely are).

Speaking of friends, there is a handful in particular that I won’t bother to name, but who have been really supportive lately. Yesterday, one of them called and left one of his usual, long, rambling voice messages, and the other gave me a pep talk that I really needed to hear. I think part of what I’m going through is what so many of us go through, and that is the dilemma of being defined by what I do to earn a living. For the better part of seven years, I was an editor and staff writer at a newspaper. I got paid to write, which was very fortunate, because being a writer is what I define myself as being vocationally. Since leaving that job, I have continued to write. I try to write everyday, no matter how I am feeling, even if I am not getting paid. It is very important that I emphasize that last part. In the last six months I have only written two things for which I was paid, but I still have written hundreds of things (every post on this website is something I wrote for no money). I refuse to be one of those, “I’ll only write if I get paid” people. Sure, there are some things I would only write for money, but if I only put pen to paper—or in my case, fingers to keyboard—just to get paid, I wouldn’t be much of a writer.

In my past life I was paid to be a writer, which is what I am; but now I get paid to be a highly trained gorilla that moves sacks of mail twelve hours a day. Seriously, I view myself as little more than a gorilla. I figure if gorillas can be trained to use sign language, and chimpanzees can pilot space ships, then it wouldn’t be that hard to train certain species of simians to be mailhandlers. In fact, I am convinced that somewhere there exists a top-secret government study on the plausibility of doing just such a thing, and that the results came up with the conclusion that training chimps, gorillas and orangutans to sort and handle mail would inevitably lead to something not unlike Conquest of the Planet of the Apes, so it was a course of action not pursued.

 

Anyway, my point is that it is difficult to not think of myself as a gorilla, because I do the work of a gorilla. (Also, the fact that I am very hairy, and much of the hair on my back and chest has turned grey, making me look like a silverback gorilla, does not help.) In order to avoid falling into the trap of negative emotions and self-defeating attitude about myself and my place in the universe, I have made the conscious decision to put forth the effort to write about every single day I work at the post office. The way I see it, if I am going to spend twelve hours of my day being a gorilla, I can at least spend a single hour being a writer, because that is what I really am.

 

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One Response to “Going Postal: Day 8”

  1. L13 Says:

    don’t worry black santa gonna blow up

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