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I Can’t Sell A Damn Thing, And I’m Not Sure If I Want To

I’m really not good at this. Commerce is not my thing. The blog and the Etsy shop are only a desperate attempt to find an alternative to my soon to be abandoned job. I’ve been doing my best to leave in style, that is, without a gap between sources of income, but that is not going to happen. People like my stuff but only very few actually buy items. I find joy when people appreciate my designs and writings, but appreciation is not enough to make a living.

My job prospection feverishly continues with no results to date. Things were already bad before the pandemic. This is not unexpected. I held the fantasy of creating my own job, either through the Etsy shop, this blog or the freelance platforms. Nothing seems to work. I’ve been spending all my energies on becoming a commercial asset at the expend of creativity, but the sacrifice is useless. I now realize more clearly how ancient this effort is and to what extent it stole my life from me. It is at least as old as my professional career, which I intended to leave as soon as I would find myself able to survive as an author.

Things would have been much easier if my professional occupation was not such a violent and weary one. I had the naivete of believing that my love for learning and explaining as well as the importance I give to education would make me an inspiring teacher. I had my moments of success, among peers, students and parents, and some of the utmost dread. In time I reached to the point of burning out. I am totally uncapable of getting back to the classroom, no matter how I hold children in my heart. It is just too much for me. I gave my best until nothing is left.

All I want is a quiet job that doesn’t make me think too much and with enough wage too pay my bills. I’ve been applying for jobs such as warehouse operator, picking and delivery operator, supermarket operator, distribution driver, shop assistant and what not. Refusals succeed, but I still have hope.

I have this tendency to share my thoughts to the public as if they have some interest or value to others. I display my life craving for love. This vanity or personality cult is an awful thing, a weakness still out of my control. Advertising about my shop and blogging to attract potential buyers only make it worse. You have no idea of how much I long for the quiet simple job and the return to my cocoon of creativity, out of worries around commercial success and artistic recognition.

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We, Commodities

Have no illusions. We’re just numbers. Commodities. Expenses for employers or clients. Seldom an investment, and all investments expire eventually. All that matters is providing more requiring less. To survive we must be experts in bidding on an endless rat race. The highly technological and promising 21st century is all about leaving behind human rights, civil rights, unions, social welfare and the social state. Each one by himself is the motto.

See Donald Trump and other thugs. See the sites for job offers. See the freelance platforms. The jungle persists, in spite of the new foliage. No doubt the extraordinary global effort to manufacture a vaccine against Covid-19 might give us some hope about communal behavior, but once the danger gets more under control the law of the jungle will be back on. And the vaccine will be part of the game. Exploitation is far away from being expelled as the engine for the so-called civilization.

Dictatorship, either governmental or corporative, from Left or Right wings, is all about dehumanizing individuals. The recurring excuse for the procedure is called “the common good” or “the grand picture”, phrases heavily distorted, an ordinary phenomenon to well meaning rhetoric and ideals. There is always someone ready to make bad use of good words. Such vocabulary becomes the fundamental tool to make us believe we are cherished and taken care of. Try reading the texts of job offers. I insist. And the freelance platforms, where bidders adopt the same language to sell their services, making commodities of themselves.

Commodities we are. From exploitation we die.