Depression Era Brighton 2: The Day

How are you even supposed to think? I have a fat arse that's growing and I've seen nothing but the insides of these walls for far too long. Now that the season has grown colder I have no will to leave for a walk, but I'm utterly sick of the view from here. I could have work if only they'd give it to me and then at least I'd know what my time is supposed to be - without that knowledge, the boundaries of time disappear and it all just turns into a mess of two different kinds of light, three different kinds of cheese, two chairs, one sofa and a table. At times I tell myself I can play the guitar instead of languishing and I do, often - same for the violin - but without work I seem to lose the perspective on their sounds and their forms. Time is like light - the more you have, the more it burns into you until you're exhausted without ever moving. The sounds of my guitar flatten and die the more I hear them, the violin loses its lilt and just seems crass. And I know that my wife is working so hard at two jobs and is ill already and that crushes me even further. I want her to be able to think of her husband as someone who is capable and active and commanding, but as it is I am none out of three and less besides. Every application I send comes back with a misspelt name or a swing-and-a-miss gender guess attached to the inevitable 'unfortunately we cannot countenance giving you a job on the basis of a hasty scanning of your covering letter and CV (all right, we read your name and assumed you were Polish)' and I don't know what else to say in them. When I get work I'm the best there is, but I'm going to work one day this week - which is a day more than last - and I'm not guaranteed anything next week. The bin men are striking in protest of their rates of pay. I've worked as a bin man - you run the round, work 5-6 hours, get paid for eight hours and a great workout. There are other perks - like greasy spoon cafes giving you free meals if you take their trash for no charge (they'd have to pay a rate for industrial waste or some such - it works out well for both sides). And whilst you stink and the work is heavy going, you make plenty more than minimum wage for unskilled labour. But the bin men are striking, in the worst economy since WWII they're laying down their gloves (they have no tools to down), leaving trash piled high on the streets, trash piled high in the kitchens, overflowing bins and rotting veg strewn across the pavements of Depression Era Brighton because the they want more pay and I can't even think for lack of work. In 'The Road to Wigan Pier' George Orwell laments how there are many unemployed men who write exceptionally well, but who rarely write at all. Though he understands their mindset, he still notes that there is a vast expanse of time in which to craft and research any number of papers. I often think the same way and, when feeling industrious, throw myself into a particularly gruelling application form or covering letter or session of music practice. But as for writing in its purest form, I find that I will write what I live and I do not wish to live this so I do not wish to write this. I also distract myself with arguments on youtube - here are some highlights: there are no highlights of arguments on youtube. Tomorrow will be better