It’s just been hard to focus on the blog with so many dark clouds hanging over my head and I didn’t want to continue to dump all my misfortune online. I’m sure you’re already well aware of my fruitless search for a job, my growing debt, yadda yadda. The particulars of my daily existence didn’t really seem blog-worthy, you know?

I was starting to feel a lot like the biblical Lazarus there for a while. Not the resurrection guy though. Maybe he is the same dude – Jesus did, after all, raise his old buddy from the dead some time later – but most scholars think that they’re two different people.

The Lazarus I’m referring to was a beggar so pitiful that even the mangy street dogs licked the open sores on his feet. Me, I had my sores attended to by Ollie. Well, not so much sores as acne from a miserly diet, but pretty much the same thing. During the past three weeks I’ve subsisted on instant noodles (when I was flush with cash), numerous variations on white rice (I can now cook rice like it’s nobody’s business!), and occasionally treated myself to a can of Cott Cola on festive Saturday evenings (the royalty of “value” beverages).

I was shocked by homeless peoples’ disposable income, enough for a fun evening on the town with a bottle of Chinese cooking wine. I didn’t dare indulge in such government-sponsored decadence (for which I did not qualify).

The time of sores and value beverages, however, seems to finally be behind me. Last week, as if by some biblical miracle, the skies opened up on my arid life and poured forth job offers, some of which have sprouted into contract jobs. Like the other Lazarus, I am born anew.

No, really, my experiences over the past number of months have been transformative and in a weird way I’m almost thankful for them. I’ve shed much of the naiveté of my past life. I suppose I could be bitter and resentful about what happened, about government (I haven’t even begun to mention the shit they pull), about the way business regards us plebs, about the callousness and selfishness of society in general, about even those who once claimed to love me. You’ve probably read about some of this and judging by your responses, I have the right to be pissed off.

But did Jesus not say, “fuck those assholes”? I needed some time to consider the wisdom of those words, and after being offline for a while I finally get it. The message has touched my heart.

So no, I’m not dead. Quite the contrary, in fact. It’s a little hard getting back into the schedule so don’t expect any miracles just yet. But you know what they say, the early bird gets the strategic advantage. Plus, they insist on me showing up at 9 a.m. at my freelance gig uptown. It’s getting me into better habits and takes me past Mount Pleasant Cemetery, home to snobby joggers, the dead, and the imagery you see in this post.

It should be no surprise that I’m not thrilled or excited to be back at work. As jobs go, so far at least, it’s not that bad. Unfortunately, however, there are certain irregularities popping up already and it’s only my second day.

Not my first day either, though. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. And just like Lazarus, I’m rising from the dead to feast on their brains!

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The thing is, I’m not sure if it’s technically mid-life at thirty-five. Also, doesn’t that usually come during the marriage? And I have absolutely no wish to buy a flashy sports car, get hair plugs, or date younger women. Well, maybe that last part. But basically, I’m not exhibiting the standard signs of a crisis. Except maybe uncertainty about my job. No, my vocation; my calling.

This morning, waiting for the streetcar, I looked up at a window washer and seriously thought, “Could I do that?”

I think the main problem is that programming’s just not fun anymore. I’m not talking about sidebar widgets, but the everyday working-for-the-man kind of stuff. On a broader scale, I know that working for money always involves working-for-the-man.  The man has projects and ideas about how he wants those projects to act/look/feel/sound/touch/react/sparkle/etc. Sometimes, it’s hard to get enthusiastic about all those ideas. Sometimes they’re not really even ideas, just innuendo.

As I usually do in my darker moments, I found solace in the Toronto Archives. They revealed that my situation isn’t unique. That others have suffered as I have. That I am not alone:

Gah! That even looks like the office where I work!

Look at them, slaving away for that jerk back there, flipping through filthy mags and abusing himself. And back then, shackles came off only after the shift was finished, and the boss could fire you for anything!

Check out the terrible working conditions some people had to put up with:

To stop oncoming streetcars with your head, to essentially act as the brake, is a horribly dangerous profession. If the guy in the picture thinks that by covering his face he’s somehow better-protected from the oncoming multi-tonne vehicle, he’s sorely mistaken. Same goes for that flimsy-looking tether he’s got snaking over his foot. He’s not even tied in!

Wow.

And I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw this photo:

In one sudden and terrifying moment she realizes who she’s been producing munitions for all this time. The Red Chinese!

Talk about a demoralizing work environment.

Kind of like this:

Unbelievable. First they make him drive that hunk of crap on, what is that? a dirt road? And look who’s along for the ride; a bunch of cripples! Add insult to injury, then the driver gets to wear “Special” above his head all day.

I don’t know how he put up with it. In fact, I don’t know how any of them could do what they did all day. But in a sense, I’m glad they did. Helped to throw some perspective on my modern lack of enthusiasm. Yup. Totally justified.

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