Tuesday, 22 April 2008

What is left where there is no more work to do? You must create work for yourself to do. This is how it is.

Tasks are finished, recorded, filed. This process, worked with a slow kind of endeavour, leads quite simply to more tasks. One task leads to many, some of which are finite, others of which are unintellectually fecund. And so work grows, branching out into new directions, whilst other growths come to a natural end. Still, all examples of growth move in the same direction, so at least we are getting somewhere. Panic sets in when new growth is not forthcoming, when the branches all end. The project must progress, we have a tree to build. There must be new growth! We must transplant seedlings and grow again! And so the project continues…

I think I am tired of work, bored of the fucking thing as a concept. Is this supposed to happen so early? I’ve only really being doing it, work, for a few years. And I’m in an occupation I’m supposed to love. But doesn’t it all seem endlessly inane? This ridiculous world of the arts sector where more money is spent on canap├ęs than artists, where budgets are lost if not spent, where funding is given only for it to cripple the recipient as the bureaucracy and evaluation requires paid working hours that far outstrip the financial benefit?

Is it not true that I journeyed to Lancaster to attend an interview – replete with suit and cribsheet - in order to only realise only that I could not care less about the job I was applying for? After two minutes I was rolling my eyes, I gave up and tried to initiate conversations. The interviewer, a nice man with a beard, gently tried to return me to course but I refused and he became embarrassed for me and ended each of my answers with a “well, thank you…” before drawing a thick pencil line through the blankness of the box on his ticksheet.

Did I not find more interest in a dead sheep that I could view from the window of my speeding train? The way field rooks were pecking out its eyes and I thought to myself how a young Ted Hughes would have loved it. The journey over was the most fun, sitting there reading Bulgakov, excited by Margarita’s nakedness and hiding this excitement. I wrote a letter asking for my travel expenses to be refunded, but they ignored it and I didn’t care one iota.

In other news, Cara has resigned from her job, which means it looks like we’re definitely going to Berlin! At this point I can think of nothing I would like better.