I’m already back to hustling, earning a few pesos, trying to survive this eternal shipwreck. I have a little job I can’t declare, so it’s better I not say a whole lot about it so the bloodhounds don’t lay into me.
I’ll only allow myself to say how I feel:
– Comfortable, because I work in my room, which means I don’t have to waste half a day or deal with anything more depressing than the hassle of public transportation.
– Content, because I labor in thought – and thinking is one of the things I enjoy most. How many times in life does one get a non-soul-destroying job?
– Fresh, because I work whenever I feel like it, and therefore I can sleep through the day and take advantage of the tranquility and spirit of the night, which returns my creativity. (On the outskirts of the city the night still has stars, crickets, croaking frogs, owls and mysteries).
– Euphoric, because I don’t have a boss. I’ve had good ones, but more often than not they’re the types who are incompetent, unbearable, well geared and fitted to the machinery (ideologically and/or production wise).
– Calm, because I don’t earn a whole lot, but I survive. And since I’ve almost learned how to live like Gandhi, I’m comfortable.
– Happy, because I’m helping someone and contributing to something good, at least that’s what I believe.
Many people in Cuba could work this way, even for the state; but work rules prefer the time card and the eight hour schedule. Why does the bureaucracy limit freedom so much? I’ll leave you readers the question as homework.
I am not racking up years towards my retirement, but I don’t care. I’d prefer to sell peanuts when I get to my golden years than to sacrifice my youth. I don’t know how much longer this party will last, maybe it’ll end tomorrow.