It would seem I’ve forgotten how to “office”.
What’s that mean?
Well, Wikipedia tells me an office is:
“generally a room or other area where administrative work is done, but may also denote a position within an organization with specific duties attached to it”
Seems fairly accurate. The only part I’d add is it’s also a place where unofficial political debates are held. Although maybe the term ‘debates’ is a little misleading. It’s a place where unofficial politics just happen…
Point is, I’ve totally forgotten how to do it (mind you, I must admit I’m a bit of a Donald Trump – never really learnt how to do the politicking bit in the first place).
Each day I go to work for, give or take, 9 hours. I’m capable of achieving a lot in 9 hours because, you know, that’s plenty of hours bro! However, I’m equally capable, or perhaps even more capable of staring into space and doing nothing.
Generally, I find I prefer the latter. Certainly, these days I find myself staring into space quite often…
I wonder what the love child of a chicken and a fish would look like?… and what would you call it? Chickfish? Fishken? Chifishken? Would it fly? Or would it swim? Both? Could it breathe underwater? Chicken fingers, or Fish fingers? Or Fishken fingers?
Sorry about that… didn’t realise my-fingers were still hitting the keys…
I guess you could say I’m a bit of a dreamer. I struggle to keep my head out of the clouds – they’re just so damn fluffy. And there’s Chifishken’s to play with up there. Who wouldn’t want to be up there bouncing around with a half-fish half-chicken?
Office-folk. That’s who.
Well, that’s not entirely true… some do want to be up there, however aren’t regularly afforded the opportunity. I know because I’m one of them. Space-staring seems to me a real talent in these days of constant-disconnected-connectedness. And like any talent, it should be nurtured… However, staring blankly into space is not what “officing” is about. Not in the sense in which I speak of it anyway.
“a position within an organization with specific duties attached to it”
Time in an office is consumed by duties, where: “duties” = “shit to do”. Most offices typically have an unofficial ‘shit-to-do-list’. The ‘shit-to-do-list’ is a list setting out the shit considered ‘acceptable shit’ for one to do and/or the shit one is responsible for the doing of. Or in less profane words, a list detailing the things you gots to do!
Space-sharing makes a lot of lists. Space-staring doesn’t (at least not in the offices I frequent anyhow).
Perhaps, I’m frequenting the wrong offices? Although I can’t imagine many office environments where people are encouraged to stare into space… NASA?
This brings me to now – battling to office like a rabid one armed bandit battles to clap in a two-handed clapping contest (what does that even mean? …no idea… sounds cool though).
Specifically, I’m battling with:
(a) The structure.
Life for me was totally unstructured for quite a while. And it was… well… pretty damn okay really. I discovered I really do like to stare into space quite a lot. And as someone who enjoys staring into space, an unstructured life suited me quite nicely…
And yes, I see the irony of structuring my thoughts in a nice lettered manner while espousing the virtues of living an unstructured life. What can I say? I’m a contradiction. Sue me.
(b) The ‘shit-to-do-list’
I don’t find the shit consuming my time to be particularly important. Actually, I know it for a fact to be totally unimportant. I’d rather space-stare, write, or have a coffee with a friend. That shit’s the important shit. But, I do the unimportant shit because I… need (want?) the dough…??
(c) Father-time’s non-existence
Father-time is the biggest hoax since Santa-Claus. He doesn’t exist. I mean, if you ask the dinosaurs, I reckon they’d tell you he died a good while back… I wonder if the dinosaurs would’ve built offices if they’d lived long enough? Somehow I doubt it… can’t imagine a T-Rex being very handy on a keyboard
Father-time’s non-existence is an interesting point though… I’m no scientist, but it seems to me time is a little bit of a myth. As far as I can tell, the future doesn’t exist until it happens, and the past only exists insofar as it can be remembered. In other words, there can never be a time existing other than… now!
In terms of how that relates to “officing” (working on projects, to-do-lists, what-have-you’s) – well, “officing” seems to be all about living for something a made up dude tells you is coming. I stopped listening to father-time a while back, yet the environment I’m now in is trying to tell me to listen to him again. And I simply don’t want to. Actually, it’s deeper than that… I honestly can’t! I mean, would you listen to a dude you knew to be a big-fat-phony?
… Santa’s still coming for Christmas though, right?
I don’t know exactly how all this bullshit ties into “officing”, other than to say there’s a definite friction going on.
I find myself in the odd position where I’ve chosen to trade something I don’t think exists in exchange for something else which ultimately doesn’t exist either (some numbers on a screen).
I guess you could say I’m battling to figure out what the fuck exactly is going on…
Got any ideas?
The only thing I know with absolute certainty is this: the more time I spend space-staring, the better!
Because that’s when the magic happens.