The Work

THE WORK The sultry Fool clatters his sad way on the grimy pavement – rickety streets – smelly, upturned bins – wasn’t this a former coal-mining town? – ’tsnot the time to be finicky – ’slost his job – they say the job’s market’s nill and now the work is, well – Terrible. Funnelled by sense-direction jingling his way in glad rags through the capital city where no one ever sleeps. He cannot find the work. * “They must have been wrong somewhere, Somewhere in the hard line of the horizon, Like a single stratum of light blue emptiness: Coal is not infinite – the work has come to an end.” * Mocked and spurned and chaffed, Forced to leave whatever he could leave, He is the only one to find the work horrible: Those on the other side of life actually enjoy it. * There will always be work for someone, someplace. * He cannot find the work, Yet his steps automatically, So plagued by halts and jerks, Find their way to an agency. * “'The work. The work.' People mouth the word But they dare not pronounce it out loud. 'The work.' There. I didn’t even need to shout. Was it this difficult? It’s all so absurd.” * The sable-hued crow soars starwards, his eyne shooting through space and cloud, his mind boring through the fact of me; The work of a handy god. © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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* “I think I’ve got the right thing for you but you’ll need to be geographically adaptable and extremely motivated.” “Oh, right now, I can take on anything.” “I'm serious, Mr. Fool.” “Far from me the idea to be insulting, damsel, but take a good look at me, from head to toe. Look the way I'm dressed, and this is my best suit. I don't inspire laughter, but pity. I know your job consists in finding a job or a line of work for jobless people or sideliners, but I know what I'm supposed to look like, and I know when I need a job. And right now, I couldn't need it more.” “Noted, with interest. No offence taken. So you're not without ignoring that your trade is a little...colourful and highly sought out. Places are extremely difficult to obtain and even though you are not your typical Fool, and even though your CV easily gives you the upper hand and grants you the possibility to override the entire line of applicants – I mean after King Lear every King is as good as go – I must warn you this King is very, very demanding. He was very specific in his requests, and you fit the bill almost 100%, as if he had asked for you specifically without naming you. Anyway, good luck, and oh – I must have you sign this discharge because your job, like a very few others, by its very humanistic nature, does involve some danger.” “Noted. You know, the discharge danger thingy is something of a joke. It takes a while to figure it out, and those who don't just lose their head. King Lear, King David, King Kong, same difference. It could be King Herod that I couldn't care less. Whatever works, as long as it’s work.” * “Death is not winged-footéd as folks say, and she ain’t swift-footéd either: it’s just a diamond-hard sharp bony foot spurring the flanks of a poor sweaty mad horse drooling foam as if the sea was ebbing on its mouth; and don’t think the horses Death uses are winged-hoovéd, otherwise they wouldn’t die like flies: swift-hoovéd they are by sheer constraint pricked on till they fall exhaust-dead – the Work must be done.” * The small hours are the longest Specially when the work is done Specially when one gets no rest Panting from the first blade of sun. * When retirement hit him, he realised he had been waiting for it since he started working, forty years ago. * (To the weeping girl in Canterbury Cathedral, near the tomb of the Black Prince)

© Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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What ails thee, lonely weeping girl? We are all tossed about and churned; It might be that some fool did hurl A stone at you, that you have been spurned. But we have all had our bitter crises, Have all had our bleeding hearts exposed; Do not hope for comfort when life is, For it is man’s lot to be thus abused. There is only one remedy for your predicament: Work. * There is deliberate intention in this thorn wounding me, an extreme volition to hurt humanity as it scrapes the bone white right through the flesh. * NRA, NJA, ASA, ANPE, Gathering like so many insects, Hopping from one work to the next, Queueing up like beads on a rosary. * Bedight in rainbow clothes from head to foot The Fool has found work – flicks one speck of soot Off from an impeccable harlequin. Polished bells and a brand new gold sequin. * When retirement hit him, he realised he had been having nightmares about it since he started working, forty years ago. * Show me a place where there is not a drop of water: There will you find drawn the most beautiful rivers, For there is serious work done down there. * The Work bears plethora of names but only one adjective befits them all: Herculean. (N.B. Even though on a day-to-day basis 'boon' and 'bane' seem to be men's chief talk.) * I have never worked. Never. Never had to. Father was sensible enough to provide us with a top-notch education in case anything happened. Nothing ever did. We had all a very nice time © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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in Eton, or Cambridge, or Oxford. Horse-riding, playing golf or polo or cricket, walking the dogs, managing the estate or our shares, meeting friends for lunch, coffee, afternoon tea, holidays, sometimes very far out in the country or even overseas: many people would find this tiresome and time-consuming, and anything that is tiresome and time-consuming is work of a kind. You should see the amount of time we spend reading books, visiting charities here and abroad, helping the poor, digging wells in the back of the beyond of Africa: we have no time to breathe. Hic manebimus optime. * “Really.” “Mmmmh.” “I mean, work really helps me organise myself.” “Mmmmh.” “There's before and there's after. The kids. The laundry. The grocery. My husband. My friends.” “Mmmmh. Continue.” “Without work I lose my bearings. All of them.” “Mmmmh.” “Now it's been five months to the day since I – since I –” “Mmmmh say it.” “Since I – since I – lost my job.” [repressed sobbing] “Mmmmh good.” “And I cannot seem to be able to cope with the everyday.” “Mmmmh.” “Yesterday, I drowned the cat. I accidentally put it into the washing machine.” “Mmmmh these things happen.” “I didn't even feel the scratches until the neighbour put alcohol on them.” “Mmmmh typical.” “Financially, we have to rely on the generosity of our friends. My parents don't know anything about my unemployment.” “Mmmmh.” “They think that everything is fine and that we are the most wonderful couple in the world.” “Mmmmh of course.” “John is cheating on me, I know it. The kids hate me. I'm a good-for-nothing. “Mmmmh don't say that.” “Really. I can't even suck on my husband's penis properly. He cried the last time I tried.” “Mmmmh really.” “Work is what connects my neurons. I'm me when I work. Now I'm just the shadow of myself.” “Mmmmh go on.” “Work definitely makes me a happier person. I need it. I want it so badly I could sell my body for it. “Mmmh.” “Really.” “Mmmmh.” “I mean, work really helps me organise myself.” * “I wish these men and women were less around © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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because there is far too much worksound for such a small quantity of working people. What I really mean is: can work not be lethal?” * “Lethal. Couldn’t find a better word. all these angry people drawing swords on the first occasion. 'Let’s kill one bird with two stones' sing they in teeming concords. Horsing around is a much safer and more plain activity,” said he. “Well, I wouldn’t call it safe nor plain; safety and plainness is good for beginners, the merest word may trigger the deadliest consequence,” replied the Fool. * This body of mine is flawed and dirty, But the work fits it like a glove. * “Seven thousand fathoms underneath us seethes hell but still work appeals to you. That’s weird. I mean you know the instant the bells toll you’ll be hanging upside down over a bubbling bath of lava. What’s the point of working your arse off when you could just live?” * How many discarded ideas for one great thought? * Canned job. 299.99$ – Accountant Remove the metal operculum Unseal the cap Sign the contract inside Send it to the insidementioned address Please consider the environment when disposing of this metal container Best before: 01.01.2012 * It is when the safety of your mind is at stake that you need the work. Not the occupation, the hobby, you need to find; no. Sheer, exhausting, obliviating, promethean hard work. * © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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Desultorily the stable boy brings the wheelbarrowload Of horseshit. * He knows the work, knows how it’s to be done ‘snot a jack-of-all-trade ‘smaster of one more like a jack-an-ape ‘t took him ten years to go up the grade and stay there. ‘tsnot given to everybody to perform in front of a King. * “Well, kingship is no longer viable, you know, just like aristocracy – one loses one’s sense of proprieties so easily – plutocracy is the key to the whole issue, I think – I mean, that’s what I think. Paperwork, bureaucracy, it’s all a necessary evil. Part and parcel of that great ensemble that is Work.” * BREAKING NEWS @ incrediblenews.com Among the thirty-four works of art that have been stolen by the Silent Gatherer – by the way, dear reader, have you noticed how histrionic this man's name is, and how leaving a signed note on a piece of early 15th Century, unidentified parchment is deliberately provoking – we can count Pieter Bruegel the Elder's invaluable Tower of Babel (1563), Monet's magnificent Poppies Blooming (1873) and Woman with a Parasol (1875). The first edition of the collected works of William Shakespeare (1623), printed in London only seven years after the Bard's death, has just been stolen from the Old Library in Trinity College, Dublin, Ireland. The authorities thought the stealer was only targeting paintings. Once again, he foiled all the profilers, all the rumours and is yet again belittling all the high-tech security systems in place. The Silent Gatherer, in another of his provocations, has given the name of the next item he is going to steal: The Sistine Chapel ceiling painting. The Vatican has just requested the help of the Italian Government in an official communiqué, according to the AFP. * You should see the way they are when they work together. All of them. Same blood, all born not even twelve months apart the one to the other, but all different. All six of them. In fact, they couldn't be any more different had they had different parents. And they all work together, helped in that respect by an over-powerful, patriarchal personage pulling the strings behind the partition wall. All abide by, obey, and breathe by especial permission from the fatherly figure. But the youngest of them is really quite something. Either she has the ego of a thousand men, or she really detests the rest of her siblings. Or both. * © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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‘tsgood for the heart, ‘tsgood for the country, ‘tsgood for the purse, work’s all good – Only I don’t know – can’t put me finger on it you know – something’s rotten, outa place, outa sort like I don’t know like a worm gnawing slowly but surely at the core o’ the apple – something not good, at all – something’s rotten in work, believe me. * “I can’t believe it! Some confounded ruffian stole my purse During the last waltz.” “Without your noticing? Well, it goes to show That there is no work without merit.” * “Excuse me Sir, but I would like to practise The oldest profession in the whole world.” “All right. Give us a hard copy of your CV and a covering letter [...] All right, thank you. Would you mind filling in this form for us? There’s a pen right over there.” “Here you are.” “Thank you. Have you got any other reference Or qualification that might help us in our decision? No? All right. You will be notified via email shortly. Good night unto you then, madam.” * “I have been manufacturing violins for the past forty years now.” “And don’t you ever get bored with it?” “I have done the best I could, and besides, Someone has to do it, my boy.” “Even if people no longer use violins?” “Like I said: Someone has to do it.” * “Come on lads! Back to work now!” * Wealth Originality Readiness Killing * Even if it’s not much, we can at least make some steW. © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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Day after day, year after year, with and without adO We go to work – the food, the bills, the rent, the caR – We need the money: if one desires the material, there’s no coming bacK, No excuses, no other solution but work, work, work. * “When i’m old, i’ll be policeman.” “Don’t talk rubbish. It’s better to be thief; policemen get killed; thieves just get caught, if they aren’t any good. And you get to steal things. And you can start now, you know, get practise.” * I have never worked. Never. Never could. Look at me: I have no legs. Dame Nature didn't see fit to equip me with any. Or perhaps the Chernobyl cloud took care of that. But do I look glum, in the dumps, downcast? I have all the comfort in the world. A bridge over my head, two wooden panels on each side to protect me from draughts, water, canned food, my dog, matches, newspapers, spare clothes, in no specific order of importance. Each and every of these things is essential, not to say vital. My dignity, all my dignity is there. And mens sana in corpore sanum. * The gardener was thinking it was time to put manure On the roses of Madam. He couldn’t allow the situation to endure. If only he could get the boy to work. The horses were Up to their necks in the absence of work. Better Not tell this to Madam. She had other fish to fry. * “Dear Madam, I am afraid that we did not retain your application in our selection. If you allow me to venture a disinterested suggestion, a friendly counsel rather, I would strongly recommend that you seek other opportunities in other trades. Prostitution is a difficult work indeed, and one isn’t naturally cut for it, even though one may think oneself accordingly predisposed to it. If, as your work experience seems to suggest, you’re inclined to be in contact with the clientele, Cashier remains an option to be considered. Yours, Faithfully. HR Managing Director.” * “Job's interview's postponed again.” “When?” “The day after tomorrow.” “Oh, that's ok then. Last time you had to wait for a whole week. You must have leant to be patient by now.” © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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“Easy to lark when you don't have to sing. And patience has never been my forte. If I don't keep myself busy with something else, I go mad. Unless you call stifling – no, no, no, even better – quelling acts of rashness 'patience', then I'm more patient than God.” * Good work is attained when what you have done is how it was meant to be. * “I don’t mind the work so much as the colleagues.” * It was Monday morning, and John was on his way to work, like every Monday morning. * “Workaholic, that’s what they call me. It’s nothing but contempt what these people show; I mean, work is the best thing that ever happened to us, It’s the greatest invention of the Nineteenth Century And people won’t allow themselves to see the benefits In terms of personal and national wealth and health We could derive from the dutiful observance Of work. People look down upon work; they whine And frown and pester and grumble but the fact is – And there couldn’t be more pleasing music to my ears – We have to work. Work, work, work is all I say!” * In the sad case of Macbeth, ‘work’ rhymes with ‘dirk’. * Why the heck did he have to tell that particular riddle? What on earth went through that Foolish head of his? There, he was sure he had done it, he was out again, Fired, canned, dismissed, asked to abandon All dignity, all humanity, his salary...what an apotheosis! Without work he was like any other poor, penniless twiddler. * “Dust, whether we like it or not, is bound to settle here and there, floatfalling particles from outer space and the general hustle-bustle of the towns. Dust is a working paradox: whether we hoover or broom it out, we always displace the problem – for dust is a problem, you see – we clean one place to make another one dirtier, which in turn we have to clean to make another one only a few feet away even dirtier and so on and so forth. At the end of the day, you have to put the dust somewhere – empty the shovel or the bag of the hoover in the dustbin – it has to go somewhere. And so on and so forth, all day every day, day-by-day, every week, week after week, all year round, for ever and for ever, until we ourselves become dust. We never can get rid of dust quite completely, unless we should © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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burn it, but that would raise some serious environmental issues, wouldn't it? But even then, there is always a residue left after the burning because it is not a complete process. Dust is a die-hard. So small a thing yet so great a problem – which, if you allow me to point out another paradox, we wouldn't even see if we worked – for dust settles down at night, when our backs are turned, when work has come to an end for the day, for it needs quietude and the solace of the dark to silently depose itself on the ground. That is why, dear madam with the harassed eyes, the hunched back and the drooping shoulders, I propose you today the ONLY implement on the market that annihilates dust thoroughly. Yes, madam! Believe it, for the latest technology, directly inspired from a weapon engineered by the US army, I present you today with Dustneat ®, the net that dusts your life! © Simply plug it in the nearest electric socket and the black rays will spread in the entire room thanks to the bluetooth captors and will send the least particle of dust to oblivion! Totally safe and totally environmental-friendly for a totally derisory price! Cleanliness has never been so near at hand! So, dear madam, I can see in your eye that the charm of Dustneat ® is working on you. Only $499, madam, think about it. Think about all those plaguing hours of dustwork which Dustneat ® will transform into shopping hours, quality family-time, time to pamper yourself or even go to work! Not even $500 madam, think about it! So, what say you?” * Back on the street, John was, after a good day’s work, On his way home, like after every good day’s work. * Patient #50-2011 Male, Asian, 6' 2”, 60 kgs. Medical antecedents: Had a stroke (CVA) in September 2010. Diabetes-related cases in the family. Reason(s) for consulting: Forced by employer. Number of visits: 4th Etiology: Patient is overworked, physically tired (+hypertension) but does not seem to realise it. He wants to have a say in every new project of the company. According to his employer, he is neglecting his personal life (not married, no child) over his work. He also used to 'yell at people' and throw various objects at them; he is always complaining about 'the inefficiency, the uselessness' of his co-workers. Also prone to rash decisions (e.g. firing someone during a meeting). Diagnosis: Patient suffers from a Severe Burnout Syndrome (SBS) Record of the session (tape-recorded then transcribed): Patient: […] * Work is the ability to judge distances; Space and time and people and events. © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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Work is the omphalos of civilisation, The way of the mind, and not of the hand, The hand being an auxiliary to the brain. Work is that great implement that facilitates breathing, Which both enlarges and focalises vision. Work is the gift from God to us ants, Myrmidons of the meeting room. * One hundred thousand warriors on the teeming moor, Ready to execute their Kings’ will, waiting for the command. Pounding on the coats of arms is the lashing rain – The infantry knows there shall be no tomb For the vanquished, no rest, no feast, no dances – Slowly the sun rises on the plain, wreathing His shafts around the swords, the armures. Chaos shall ring like so many works; Death shall amidst men wreak havoc. * For Lady Macbeth, ‘work’ can rhyme with nothing but ‘perk’, Only it doesn’t work properly. No one should ever, Macbeth least of all, listen to a woman whose work Is to help her husband in any possible way. Whatever Her real name is, it rhymes with ‘trouble’. * “What’s the difference between a King and a Fool?” * After four months of retirement, and having waited for it his entire life, he started getting bored. Fidgeting here and there. Fishing didn't help. Watching his wife get into her car every morning was painful. Something was amiss. He almost wished he had a heart attack. When that wish hit him, he decided to get a part-time job in a café. Only then could he smile again. * Build a house. Build a fire. Grow corn. Raise a family. Revere the gods. Help your friends. Live piously. Work. * The battlefield reeks of blood – shreds of bodies and Carcasses strewn across the plain up to the horizon. It took the fight no more than a couple of hours to end: The King is pleased with the work: all things new arisen. * © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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The administration pays no heed to a baby born – A dead body is of far more interest to them: More papers, more opportunities to show its worth, Its raison d’être. No one would need it otherwise. * Grieving for one long dead The doubt should evanesce, I must have been left unsaid For I am but emptiness. No-one to thank but myself Bent over the lean footbridge, No-one to curse but myself Hesitating near the ridge. Aiming at the writ abstract, Unignoring the others, I wish I knew what I lacked, Why they could break their tethers. I ought to work more thoroughly – To the end of work itself; Drained of the last dregs of self, Quite unsecondthoughtfully. * When he promised the thing, he didn't realise he would have to do it every day. Usually this trick of his worked like this: he'd pass as the knight-in-shining-armour-and-longsword-akadragonslayer and that'd be the end of it. The girls would take his word as a princely promise and say “hoooooo, so cute” with rounded lips, glittering eyes and hands on both cheeks. And kiss him and move on to another topic. For no one in their right frame of mind would think that anyone in their right frame of mind would get out of bed before dawn just to do that. But that girl was different. She was the first one to actually believe he'd do it. Now he was bound by his light word, doomed by his vanity, and however great a pain in his arse it was to wake up so early and not to be able to go back to sleep and however dark and deep furrowed the bags under his eyes, he actually, quite masochistically, enjoyed it. * I can’t stand other people’s tears, they don't seem to advance work in any conceivable way. * “I have often wondered” said the Fool “why I felt so despondent, so down – now it’s no bathtub that I have, it’s a pool and I’m awaiting to be given a crown. Fickle friend Fate is, plays us fools’ tricks So damnable it deserves good bottom kicks.” © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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* After four months of retirement, and having dreaded it his entire life, he started going out. Fidgeting here and there. Fishing was fun, and all the guys but one there were fun. Watching his wife get into her car every morning made him happy. Something was in its right place. He wished he didn't have heart problems. When that wish hit him, he decided to go running in the park and do as many outdoor activities as his heart could stand. Only then could he smile again. * “Master! Master! Madam delivered! It’s twins sir, you’ve got yourself twins!” He thought, smiling and giving the boy a twopence, That it would mean, many years from hence, Twofold pair of hands to run the estate – And perhaps two different ways to divide it. * “Here Sire, have you ever heard that one? This is the best riddling joke ever –” * Now he would have to cancel that stupid will first thing upon returning to the Castle. He’d done it as a joke – bequeathing his Kingdom to that miserable Fool – this was the joke, not him – the bloke was good enough for the time being, but he was still hoping to find the Supreme Fool, the one that would lighten the yoke of the years and turn his worries into fine delicacies. Talking about worries, even though the battle had been planned well in advance – the death of the barons hadn't. They had been too brash, too boisterous. But faithful. He would have to baronise trustworthy servants before anything dreadful and uncontrollable happened. Perhaps his cousins might fit the bill – no – he wouldn't like the “nepotism” etiquette labelled on his back. People blabbed. He would also have to tell the recruiting agency not to – these strawberries tasted strange – they shouldn’t hire any – there was a really bad taste in his mouth – any F – gosh – these strawb – damn – it was poi – * The engineer in chief was worried: The machine wouldn’t work on its own. When was he supposed to tell John Brown? Thirty-two, useless and unhurried: Black and blue brush-up of his faint soul. * “It’s a fool’s errand, Herakles, don’t do anything You might not live to regret.” “I’m a farthing Short to pay Charon.” © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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“Could you be sensible, Just for this one time?” “Yes – please excuse me. You’re right – I’ll cross that river for no penny. Wasn’t I made from no earthly crucible?” * I have never worked. Never. I have always done what pleased me, amused me, thrilled me. Every once in a while I have to become serious for a day or two and tend to a business or two, but the vast majority of my days are taken up doing something not even remotely akin to work. Money? I dealt with that a long time ago, I mean chance did that for me: I won the jackpot at the lottery. Ad abundantiam. * “Well, it’s got to work, Or my name’s not Brown.[…] Ridiculous, it’s ridiculous! This is preposterous! Kicking people out for no reason at all!” * “Thou rapscallion! Wilt thou scurry to work? What business hast thou with these strawberries?” * What the people on that day saW, Out of joint and in the midst of a great to-dO, Roaring so fiercely that the mob was taken with feaR, Kicking and yelling was John Brown at worK. * “Listen my lad, how much would you like to be a cannonboy?” “It would, Sir, bring me a great joy, if only it was a proper job.” “Come on, come on, it is work of a kind.” * “Sire. How many dead workers for one great pyramid?” “Negligible,” answered Pharaoh, “compared to the multitude that worship me.” * Canned job. Limited Golden Edition. 9999.99$ – CEO Remove the metal operculum Unseal the cap Sign the contract inside Send it to the insidementioned address Please consider the environment when disposing of this metal container © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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Best before: 01.01.2012 *  spark Mrs Brown  kill King with strawb  sabotage Machine drink w/ Bob * Apply within with a CV. Beginners welcome. * “Violin player is not work, lad, it’s never going To get you anywhere but the gallows with a string Noosed round yer neck if you go on playing Like that. Promise I’ll lead ye there meself for one thing.” * ‘Just because I’m no good with me hands Doesn’t mean I’m no good with me fingers Necessarily,’ thought he. Then for the bands Of red red roses he became the dung-bringer. * Once a dustman always a dustman. For ever shalt thou smell the garbage and think that putrefaction is a common global factor, that the stench of rottenness is invariable, now more than ever. Tailors always observe the seams, assess the build and take mental notes of the errors, of the flaws, of the daring acts, of the choice of materials and of fabric, down to where the buttons are set and why. Always they turn their coat to mediocrity or bow their hat to serendipity, tutting at the Made in China. Chefs dining out in McDonald's or at a friend's subconsciously assert the food on their p(a)late, because they have always liked their steak medium rare. * The sheep know their work; know whose turn it is to stray; know who must form the herd; know who must baa; know who must sprain its leg; know who must be sacrificed to the Gods or to the wolf, for the common good. * Keep up with the good work. Good semester. * “I’m apprentice to a gardener.” © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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“And do you like it boy?” “Well, first I wanted to be a policeman, then a violin player but me dad opposed. Then he found me a place at the Manor.” “Yes, yes, but do you like it boy?” * “All I did, all I achieved in my entire existence shall come to nought. The dust of oblivion shall cover its bones and sinews; its muscles shall shrivel and its skin pulverise after an age. The monuments which I have raised from the ground shall bear the marks of the chisel which my hand held, which my mind directed; these monuments shall remain on the landscape and support my memory in the hearts of men. None shall forget who beholds my work – but man is fallible; but man is mortal; and none shall survive all-powerful Time. Hence everything built out of stone, carved out of jasper, diamond or obsidian, every thing that I made and that are me, shall perish at the exact instant man disappears from the face of the earth. Buildings can also be torn apart, stones can be split, hewn into roads or statuettes, each time my memory rifted into so many fragments.” * “Each to his own,” shrugged the undertaker. * The time had come for John Brown to meet the Fool * He had tactfully reminded his wife that he’d done the dishes and cleaned the bathroom – so why was she still irate? He had picked the children up at school, for the first time in weeks. He had made substantial efforts. He, also, had to go and earn enough dinero to put bread on the table – the fact that he had been laid off she needn’t know – yet – he had responsibilities as well. Why this animosity? This resentment? * who, after all, hadn’t been given his notice.

© Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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* “I am nonplussed…What is it, Fool?” * “We should invent ubiquity, suppress the dole, put these crowds of idle profiteers to work, have them consume the sweat from their brows!” * This day, September 4th ––––, the undersigned, John Brown, unemployed, and M––– Brown, born Grasshopper, Decide by mutual consent [mutual my arse] In favour of a divorce [she’s leaving] and decide to share the said possessions [my possessions], Both material and pecuniary [yes, and], on an amicable agreement [dunno that word]. * “Our parents and grandparents have worked their lives away in these mines, extracting with blunt tools and charging with their bare hands the coal that was transported by trains to the Capital city where people enjoyed the comfort brought to their very doorsteps and that enlightened their new, thrilling, extatic way of living. Our families helped the nation grow richer and paved the way to modernity. People seem to forget the abnegation of our forefathers. Time has obliterated from their minds the ash, the maladies, the appalling working and housing conditions, the unfavourable economic conjunction of circumstances that worked against our relatives. They couldn’t find any other work. They were forced into this atrocity. They were martyrs. I hope people like me will never forget the gift of their lives. I hope some day I will be able to dedicate a pit of hell to their memory so that people shall always remember how and why and what they suffered for. Coal is the emblem of their martyrdom, and an entire village shall be their museum.” * “None to be seen, none to be told, one to suffer if I be bold; one that the heart in all his wisdom may make me rule over your kingdom.” “All right, all right, but what is it?” “None on the throne nor in the bone.” “Nice…err...rhymework, Fool…even though I can’t make head or tail of it..err – Now, to war!” said he slapping his thigh. * He had never chatted like that with anyone. He had not even seen her face. He had googled her, to no avail of course, and he had had one brief look on Facebook even though there were thousands of the same name. She was sweet to him, almost intimate, as if they had known each other for ages. And she was just doing her customer-support service. The chat window had appeared out of the blue as he was browsing for cars to rent. She had said 'hello, 您好' and it © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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had been a non-stop conversation since then. Four hours. He thought at first it was an automated service, but the first smiley confirmed the humanity at the other end of the keyboard – machines don't use smileys. Time had stretched on and in a way those four hours passed like a blink of the eyelids, and in another they passed like empty afternoons. Once, his network cut off and the thought of losing her was a stabbing pain in his heart. It was she who had reinitialised the conversation window. She was living and working in Beijing. Her name was Faye Wong. He loved her. * Pulleys, pinions and gears, wheels, chains, springs and pivots, cogs and levers and shears – everything but rivets. * “A lot of things can’t be put into question, like ourselves for example. The existence of an apple can be explained at first glance. We see events and actions like valedictions; with ourselves, so many factors are left to chance.” * Too many questions to ask and but one single task: Work * Time and space are a matter of impressions. Work is one of sandpaper P12 on the skin. * – diaphanous curtains ebbing under the breeze – * The best jacket to wear at work is a straight one. * It's not always a new day at midnight. The old one lingers while the new one awaits. We pester and frown at the failed promises and the broken words, and we have to remember ourselves to force our smile as the dawn breaks: we have to teach ourselves to hope, to have faith in someThing, or someOne, or someWhere, or someWhen. Hope pertains to our instincts, yet it is buried so deep within ourselves that we have to unearth it every so often: it is a grave a dutiful caretaker keeps shovelling earth in. That is our work. * © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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We do not know how to handle death, either rejoice or wail, indifference or compassion, angry or back to work. * The crow perches on the highest branch Of a wych elm, scanning the horizon. Not for food though, This has been dealt with. No. The crow feels the clouds might have something to say. The statues of salt before the burning city Shall melt, perhaps some flesh will be spared. * Untreated wound of the mind left to the care of gluttonous worms stifling pain unremitting agony working their way through shadowy memories. * Collecting taxes never was an easy job. Quite unlike selling corn-on-the-cob. People hated them. People spat on their shoes. Could they not see they were taxpayers too? * The worker’s hand * “Hi sweetie. No, I’m still at work. Yeah, loads of stuff to do. I…err…got John’s message, so it’s a girl…Of course I’m happy, honey. No, pick out the name you want. I just hope she’s got your eyes. Is she? Just like you babe, just like you. You know I can’t do that, my boss would kill me. I’ll come tonight, promise. All right then. Gotta go now love. Love you too. Bye, bye... – Bob you bastard, I owe you a tener; fuck it, it’s a girl.” * “No no no, docimology is the key; and this is no good work by any standard.”

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* Those who work here shall know what being man is all about, and to respect the grave and magnificent Work of God the munificent. * Every able-bodied man, preferably stout, Must hence to work – NOW! 'no' is NOT an option. * “What’s wrong with a girl, mate?” “A girl can’t use her hands.” “Oh God they bloody well can.” “It’s not that I’m talking about, you stupid prick. A girl’s of no use building a wall or kicking a ball. What I wanted was a lad.” “Jaysus, you take it too much at heart. Leave her a chance, at least.” * Even Fooling around nowadays has become a chore. * The world needs a direction, Someplace to go to – Either sombre or incandescent – We need the sense of an ending. * “Will – you – work – you – stupid – idiot– don’t – dare – answer – back – to – me – or – I’ll – really – kill – you – – God this blockhead got me a blister on the back of the hand –” * “We country people prefer simpler lives than in the hubbub of the cities; simpler food, simpler pleasures, everything more attainable, simpler needs – Oh, yes, we know that the work we do is certainly harder, but we can’t make our cake and eat it, © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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can we?” * “The bulk of the work is to assemble the hull – aquadynamics’ what it’s called – if I recall rightly – poise on the waves – the thing’s not to visit Davy Jones’ Locker – but just to skim always right above it – poise on the seas I repeat myself – nice counterbalance to starboard – but that’s just a theory – can’t be applied to the other hemisphere – straightforwardness on the undulations – the rub with any theory is to avoid the pitfalls, the graves – to strike the crux of the matter – there, lad, on the mantelshelf – steadfastness of purpose – to float and never sink – fluctuat nec mergitur – that’s the purpose of any boat, by Jove!” * “Hey! Yes! That’s it, Babe! Dance! Rock to the music! Work that ass! Yesssssssssss!” * “[…] and do you not find your work something of a joke?” “Ah. Ah. Ah. That’s a rib-splitter. You know how to talk to Fools, you sure do. You want to hear a confession? In such a field of activity, One can laugh one’s head off. Literally Folly and Genius are a Janus face In the hearts of men, specially Of those who detain power. No work is without merit as long As one remains whole.” “You seem to suggest that it’s better To be hopping along after work Than having the sword of Damocles Hanging upon one’s neck?” “I'm just saying that one learns to tame danger And to appreciate whatever it brings.” © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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“Tame? Would you like to qualify this statement? No? Is ‘put up with’ so inopportune?” * “Without danger, no work deserves glory.” * Five months to the day without work. Un. Employ. Ment. Idle. Job. Less. Forty CVs sent. No feedback. His place, like his mind, is a mess. Not a shilling left in his purse. His innards are churning for lack of food. He begins to feel there's a curse, Without work, without hope, what is the good...? * From the earliest development of intelligence When we homo erectuses first flicked flames from flint, We never realised – how vain and stupid we look – That work was a bane, nothing but an olamic stint. * “If you look at it from an architect's perspective, the whole thing is bound to collapse, and rather soon than late. None of the concentric layers is parallel to the ground, and the arches are perpendicular to where they should be. Not to mention that the foundations are not even properly laid. God may have had a hand in the downfall of the tower, but for all we know it might just be very bad engineering. Everything is erratic, hectic, swarming with activity. No doubt a great deal of manpower was deployed, specially for the times, but it is managed atrociously! Had I been the King, I'd have fired the foreman on the dirty spot.” * “Ogle while you can, lazy; when the boss’ll be back you see I’m gonna tell him.” In the secret of his heart He thinks: “I detest my colleagues and I detest my work.” He even writes it on a post-it: I detest my work. And then crosses it. Twice. work. * “Us poor yeomen are prone to acknowledge The grand words of the lords our masters. The Lord gave us not the owing of wit or land, We are simple hands doing the bidding of few Who can claim something we will never understand. The only certainty we poor folks have is that There is humanity in working the furrow. That’s perhaps why toil and soil are so similar © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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In the sound of the coulter, in the shape of the scythe.” Then he bowed to go his lone way tipping his hat. * We are hoarding creatures – collecting trinkets is how we pass the time. Every physical object, every handiwork is deemed worthy and can be laid hands upon, is as good as go: undersized trophies, stamps from places we never visited, bottles we never drank, photographs of ancient times and ancient people and distant relatives and total strangers and estranged places and unusual situations and beautiful landscapes seascapes mountainscapes cityscapes other people have taken, pins and needles, mint-condition cans and bumped cans and quarter-full cans, empty bags and worn-out bags and bags with holes in them, watches that no longer tell the time we live in but that tell the time of once-upon-a-time or not-so-long-ago or it-was-justyesterday or otherwhen, medals that no longer signify anything, decorations other people have won and worn, all sizes wedding rings, new rings used rings, shoes, books, pieces of dyed cloth and hems from all over the world, gold-plated cups and jewellery, glasses, heady wines and sour wines and stone-cold wines and wines turned to stone, antique contraptions and prehistoric shards of flint and prelapsarian propelled assegais and an infinity of other possessions that have above all dust in common. So many precious tokens of love, friendship, hardship, war, of the everyday life of common people, representing – may we say 'symbolising' – our existence that cannot be dubbed petty thanks to them, which the grave shall refuse and which shall encumber and embarrass the living. We even keep the dead and the unnoticed. The only memorabilia we will never collect, for fun or at all, unless one is alienated to it – and aren't we all? – are the ones dealing with our own perception of work and its declensions. 'How come?' one may well ask. We loathe and love work as much as we loathe and love Death and Life. Eager we are confronting them, and despondent, impatient yet unhurried. The extremities of existence. Antipodes rather. In between settles work and no drums rolling announcing some unconvincing peripeteia: how could we get on without working? The world would be in a right good state. We would start eyeing each other’s possessions just for idle times passed eavesdropping and inspecting the neighbours. No. It cannot be thus. We all have workers’ hands if we pluck up the courage to face the fact. We are better off working and not getting too much curiosity on the nature of work. This is better left alone. Sift our sentiments if need be. If need be, blind ourselves. We must remember to. Live. Work. Die. The all-important words men mouth every day and never utter with enough credibility to sustain rebellion. So men throw into it all the energy they can muster – some say ill-advisedly that it is the energy one finds in despair – and work themselves into oblivion, until it becomes so much part of themselves that it no longer is necessary to persuade themselves that they must carry on – they do so without blinking. Men strike as hard as they can on the anvil of Time with their bare hands and forget about the blisters which in good time thicken and render hands callous and apter to perform their office. Work is a pillar of society and it burns to the touch as with it would irremediably fall the other pillars that maintain the world’s equipoise: Time, Money, Communication, Selfesteem, Religion. “Do or die” was once written upon a ship. At that time work was just beginning to become the panacea it is today. We must still choose between the two, and work. God Bless Work. * The writer's block is the blighter's work. * © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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MBI Scale (Maslach Burnout Inventory) Answer all of the questions using one and only one of the following propositions: Never / Several times a year / Once a month / Several times a month / Once a week / Several times a week / Every day 1-I feel emotionally emptied by my work. 2-I feel worn out at the end of my working day 3-I feel tired when I wake up and that I have to tackle another day of work 4-I can easily understand what my clients* feel 5-I feel that I take care of some of my clients as if they were objects 6-Having to work with people all day long takes a lot of effort 7-I am very efficient dealing with my clients' problems 8-I feel I'm breaking down because of my work 9-I feel that I have a positive influence on people through my work 10-I became more insensitive towards people since I started this job 11-I fear this job may toughen me emotionally 12-I feel I'm full of energy 13-I feel frustrated by my work 14-I feel I'm working too hard 15-I don't really care about what happens to some of my clients 16-Working in direct contact with people is too stressful 17-I can easily create a relaxed atmosphere with my clients 18-I feel boosted up when I can connect with my clients 19-I have accomplished a lot of meaningful things in this job 20-I feel strained 21-I treat any emotional problem very calmly 22-I have the impression that my clients put the blame for their problems on me * The term 'client' is generic for any type of relationship: parents, clients, students, patients... RESULTS: Award 6 points for each 'Every day' answer, then 5 for each 'Several times a week' answer, then 4 points, 3 points etc...'Never' earns 0 point. This test investigates three different sides: exhaustion, depersonalisation, personal accomplishment Exhaustion (Questions 1, 2, 3, 6, 8, 13, 14, 16, 20) If your total is less than 17, you have mild burnout between 18 and 29, you have moderate burnout more than 30, you have severe burnout Depersonalisation (Questions 5, 10, 11, 15, 22) If your total is less than 5, you have mild burnout © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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between 6 and 11, you have moderate burnout more than 12, you have severe burnout Personal accomplishment (Questions 4, 7, 9, 12, 17, 18, 19, 21) If your total is more than 40, you have mild burnout between 34 and 39, you have moderate burnout less than 33, you have severe burnout A high score to the first two scales and a low score to the last scale indicate a Severe Burnout Syndrome. * Hellbent on his oeuvre is the assassin. * We fight, literally, with teeth and claws, to Get a decent job, to get a decent life; And I still haven’t got a single clue As to how to succeed without a strife. * “I failed, once again. Once is not always, Is it? I should bend my thoughts someplace else. I remain a man of integrity, Whatever happened, all this, and the rest. Or perhaps I’m also wrong about that: I am a worthless gnat ready to die.” * “Funny thing, Estragon, I heard Godot has arrived. We should stop our work and see for ourselves.” “You know that I can't go there if you don't push my wheelchair, so stop fussing, get your teeth and let's go.” * He doesn’t know why but the sharp, round stone has made something new with the cone-shaped stone – a faint flash of light as when thunders brood – the strong, acrid smell doesn’t presage good – and he knows he’ll have to do it again – for the flicker still floats in his vision. * “So you say that on the night of the murder, Which was Friday night –” “Well, it was midnight, To or past a minute. I should have made sure. © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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Do you count it as Friday or Saturday?” “Well, this isn’t relevant I say. You told agent Brown you heard a strange noise –” “Time is no trifle. It needs equipoise.” “I told you that that minute does not matter.” “Tell this to the man in the gutter.” * Each and every one of his steps Are progressively heavier; And even though he must get no rest, His lameness must be accounted for. * From shilly-shally to willy-nilly to unstoppable. * I have never worked. Never. My passions were always too chronophagous to allow any other type of activity. And to paraphrase Confucius, it's just a matter of finding what you really want to do, what you are passionate about, and never will you have to work for a single day, never will you have the impression of burden so many people feel when they switch off the alarm clock. You won't work, yet you will make this world a more beautiful and a fuller place. Gutta cavat lapidem. * 19 In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return. 23 Therefore the LORD God sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was taken. * “Wreaths, gravestones in any colour Or material, death announcements, Crematorium, funeral service, Verbascum thapsuses, pallbearer hiring, Firing squad, guard of honour, different sounding knells, Sepulture facilities, second-hand catafalques You name it. Death is our trade and we are the best at it.” * “Mr John Brown, unemployed, I accuse you of the murder of Mr John Brown, chartered accountant.” * Was it Jim or Jesus who was lame? * Patient #50-2011 © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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Male, Asian, 6' 2”, 59.1 kgs. Medical antecedents: Had a stroke (CVA) in September 2010. Diabetes-related cases in the family. Reason(s) for consulting: Forced by employer. Number of visits: 7th Etiology: Patient is overworked, physically tired (+hypertension) but does not seem to realise it. He wants to have a say in every new project of the company. According to his employer, he is neglecting his personal life (not married, no child) over his work. He also used to 'yell at people' and throw various objects at them; he is always complaining about 'the inefficiency, the uselessness' of his co-workers. Also prone to rash decisions (e.g. firing someone during a meeting). Diagnosis: Patient suffers from a Severe Burnout Syndrome (SBS). N.B. The patient has shown a great reluctance at recognising his current psychological situation. Clear denial which lead him to receive an official warning from the Board of Directors. The patient rejects the responsibility on the said Board of Directors. * Wars prOstitution dRugs banKs * “Despicable though it may seem, You dreaming of work Was just a bad dream. You will never have to rework. Don’t worry and listen to what mum says.” * BREAKING NEWS @ incrediblenews.com When the priest closed the door to the Holy Chapel that evening, he didn't know he would have to open it again next morning to a wholly different place. The Silent Gatherer managed – and everyone around the world, despite being outraged, holds his breath to know how – to sneak away with the most famous scene of the Sistine Chapel ceiling painting (executed by Michelangelo between 1508 and 1512): the Creation of Adam, under the very nose of the conjoined forces of the Vatican and Italy. It seems that, according to the Italian correspondent of the AFP, no other part of the painting has been touched, and that the part of the ceiling where the original scene was is now blank, leaving only a large, oval-shape space of the original plaster underneath, but nothing is

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confirmed as yet as the scene of this heinous crime has been sealed and is currently under close investigation. * Visit the dire coal mines of Tullich-cul-tir! Discover the truly difficult lives of coal-miners at the turn of the Century by plunging into the darkness of a refurbished pit! Find out why coal miners couldn’t live beyond 40 years-old on average! Explore the grimy, desolate, unhealthy, spooky, kept-in-original-state-of-disorder habitations of the black blokes! You can even live a day in the life of a coal-miner! (Conditions apply and prices available at the Tourist Office) Go online on our official website to read the delighted comments of people who have dared embark on such a thrilling experience and have a look at the pictures of their memorable stay! * “What evidence, witness or motive do you base this indictment on, pray?” * He had transcended his profession. He had gone beyond the boundaries Of work itself and had elevated The subtle art of assassination To its utmost state of perfection. None had dared be so extreme in this trade, Him who had started building orreries. He’d seen the meaning of life when he needed To see in his own life some direction: Whatever Fate should decide for us, We should all put our time to good use. That is why he had set up this business. And none could contend that he had hit A soft spot in human nature: Death. * The walk to the gallows Is longer than he would have thought; The chain at his feet allows But a slow pace. He knows he’s wrought More necks than the common bugger, But still less than the executioner. * Does your life need impetus? Do you feel despondent, dulled by morosity? Do you feel like you don’t enjoy Life anymore? Seek no longer for that Little Something © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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Which you feel amiss and choose an Adventurous, Thrilling, Healthy – and perhaps Hectic – Lifestyle! Call our specialists on XXX-XXX-666 For a special, full-colour brochure. You won’t live to regret it! * “On that night I was in my house...er... Performing my conjugal duty.” “What the hell do you mean by that?” “Hm Hm. I was at work on my spouse... To put it bluntly.” “That’s you saying it.” * “The Workes of William Shakespeare, containing all his Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies: Truely set forth, according to their first ORIGINALL.” 20 s. * “The machinery was working fine after the third shift, And then it went berserk in the middle of the fourth shift, To finally come to a complete stop. Then Brown was called. I think, sir, that we have been set up: it was sabotaged.” * “…and since our much regretted King lost his precious life facing this savage host, thine head shalt be divinely anointed. Thou shalt be given a crown, a sword, a steed, And a prosperous kingdom to rule.” ‘Good. All I ever possessed was a mule. Talk about the wind of change. Mine blows.’ Thinks the ex-Fool now new-King who bows And receives the sainted oil with a shiver. ‘Good the King mentioned me in his will. With all the barons dead, I am the winner. Yes! Now the ermine coat to fit the bill.’ * In the lost case of Macbeth, ‘work’ = ‘jerk’ (signed: Olaf) * Dear

Mr Brown Welcome to our brand-new, award-winning vitality plan “I choose Life!” Your first instalment has been paid. Congratulations! Now Mr Brown you will call this number (scratch the black area situated at the bottom of this letter to reveal the number) and you will arrange a meeting with © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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one of our specialists any day that suits you. Prior to this meeting, we would like you to collect everything you feel relevant to your present way of living. Everything you deem important is good, but what you deem not to be important is perhaps even more valuable to us. Our specialist needs to gather as much information concerning you as possible (day-by-day schedule, agenda, bank data, certificates of all kinds, photographs of relatives and acquaintances, clothes etc.) in order to know you. Blood samples shall be taken during this interview so please come on an empty stomach (sugary edibles and hot beverages will be provided). Remember this when you arrange for the meeting (preferably mornings). When our specialist gets the picture of your life in, if possible, its minutest details, he will be able to determine the most suitable time for your passing. Indeed, the date and time of your assassination shall in no way be transmitted to you, nor shall any hint be given to you for a greater comfort of mind, for it is the very purpose of “I choose Life!” We feel certain that only being reminded that you shall die is enough to boost people up into a new, healthier and more satisfying lifestyle. However, in order to give you a general direction of the necessities this new situation will impose on you, we can inform you that all our clients have been more than content with our services – including the testamentary facilities – and that not one of them had to wait too long – they always said that it was timely. So you may rest assured that you have from a couple of weeks to a handful of years before being assassinated. Plenty of time, from your old perspective. Rest assured that our specialists are well-equipped and aptly-trained for the mission you and us are embarking on. The after-sales service department is indeed joinable on request, but we regret to inform you that refunds is not in our marketing policy, nor is abandonment of project. Pursuance of our goals is our pride and we feel that you will not disagree with this aspect of our work when the time comes. We go to great lengths to have you enjoy the little time you are left with. Every single one of your queries shall be discussed openly and freely during the meeting (every piece of information is strictly confined within our walls). We hope with all our hearts that you will enjoy this new and marvellous experience we propose and that you shall accept, when the time comes, the terms we have come to agree on. And don’t forget: you won’t live to regret it! Faithfully Yours, X, Marketing Department. P.S. Do NOT forget to burn every correspondence from – and to – us as we will decline any responsibility and connections with you in case of disagreement. We always prefer to come to an amicable agreement to settle any diverging viewpoints which, we rest assured, won’t come up. Yours. X. * The crow was there. Just a second ago. The branch still bobbing, up and down, from the necessary impetus and the rather clumsy clutch of the claws. * The ceremony had been nothing short of grandiose And now he was King. The day was drawing to a close And still he didn’t know what to do. He’d ask the clerk. © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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No. Now he knew. He would ask for a ton of tallow. Perhaps not. A better time to think would be tomorrow – A perfect day just to cogitate about kingwork. * “Wow is she pretty! Phew! Oh my God she is so small! Are they meant to be so small? What little hands she’s got. And she’s got my eyes! Come on Love, I told you I just loved girls! Isn’t she a pretty sight! I love you so much Love. I didn’t realise kids brought such a joy. Are you ok dear? Do you want anything? Water? I guess it’s been very painful, but you’re the mother Of one little girl who in good time shall Have a courtyard of men at her feet! What? What now about the baseball glove? I mean, she will play baseball as well as a boy! I’m so happy! Yes! Yes! That’s her father’s gal! Look, err, Love, I’m going out, err, no, just for a sec sweetie. Gotta call Bob for some silly bet. Don’t worry, I won’t be long... – Hullo, Bob? Listen bud, I’m sorry…” * The worker’s hand is in no way like the dyer’s For it subdues nature to its manly resolve; The worker’s hands cannot but be like the dyer’s For work yields a texture and both these hands convolve. * The boy flung the shovel on the heap Of dirt at the foot of the oak. “I hate this wark! I HATE this wark!” “Mind the tools! Shovels don’t come in cheap!” “You doylt gawkie! Always nagging me, Always shushing me! I hate you!” “Now lad, I’ve had enough of thi–” “Shut up! You never cleaned up the goo, Never with dung or sweatin' wark you fash!” “I think what you boy need is a good thrash.” * Ecclesiastic: Words Of Religion Keeper. American spy: Where Omar Residence Keeps? Sperm donor: White Oleaginous Residual Kale. Munich Beer Festival habitué: Will Obviously Re-empty Keg… Confounded ruffian almost caught red-handed stealing a purse: Will Offer Resistance, Knave! A particularly turbulent Swedish student: Watch Olaf Read Kant! KKK member: War Of Races Kindle © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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Namasera ad corner: Woman Offers Reeking Knickers. World: Outlawed Raging Kerfuffle. * “Now Mister Brown, which way would you want to pass out? Still in two minds? Please, have a look at this brochure. It will surely help you come to a decision. I permit myself to draw your attention to our exclusive, brand new option. You can get an even more thrilling experience with a manhunt, totally planned, totally safe. But perhaps you would prefer more conventional experiences. Pardon me? A whole range of daggers are available and different assassination styles – Oh, you meant me? Mmmh. Let me think. I would particularly recommend a Mpu Gandring keris with a shuriken style. Almost painless, utterly lethal, stealthy: in a word: efficient beyond expectations. What about these daggers? They're from Aleth. Very good choice – on a cutting par with the Mpu Gandring keris.” * Lank heavy shadows Follow the dashes cut out On a rice-paper patterned partition wall * “Half the nights are doomed Half the days are inconsolable Under make-believe constellations A half-strung, half-awake nightmare Unleashed behind unblinking eyelids Sleeplessness awaits us all at different stages In our lives. Some say we live the lives of three horses Or of nine cats. I say we live The life of one man, and this is far worse Than we could imagine, than we could devise. Nights are hell for guilty consciences The stench wouldn’t leave our nostrils The stain wouldn’t come off of our skin The habit of blood wouldn’t come off us We are born betrayers for We pay our debts with cut throats.” * Can 2.1 billion Christians be so utterly wrong? Can 1 billion Hindus be proven mistaken? Can 1.5 billion Muslims be wrong as well? Can the rest not be right? We all work under different skies. * The man carrying a slab of work downhill on the path to the boats has turned his harnessed back on the grovellers brown-nosing the King. © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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Whoever placed this jar of water up on the stone must have been very careless, or instructed into the ways of Fate. * Patient #50-2011 Male, Asian, 6' 2”, 57.4 kgs. Medical antecedents: Had a stroke (CVA) in September 2010. Diabetes-related cases in the family. Reason(s) for consulting: Forced by employer. Number of visits: 9th * The adze. Where was that adze? * “Ok John, what do we have now? What couldn't wait until sunrise?” “Thank you John, for coming here so fast. Have a look for yourself.” “Mmh. Oh. That’s strange. That part should be open.” “I know and it’s not the only thing that’s strange. Look here – I know these MRI’s aren’t the best ever, I ordered better ones – the rostral and caudal parts are distal but the caudal part is proximal from where it should be.” “Where are the pyramids?” “Very few or very near non-working; I mean, it’s a theory, but the EEG just seems to confirm this.” “No signs of the Dejerine syndrome?” “None.” “I mean, is this some sort of sick joke John? It’s two in the morning and –” “It’s –” “Look. This man’s medulla oblongata is situated almost one centimetre from where it should be. It’s not even caudal to the pons. Where’s the pons anyway?” “There. Come on John, don’t freak out.” “What? Look here my good man: the man's olives are more the size of nuts than olives. The hypoglossal nerve is Lord knows where but not between these two parts. The vagus nerves could be connected to the spinal cord. This man must have been born with, with, with an atrophied medulla. For all I know this man must tell his lungs to breathe and his heart to beat –” “And his sphincters to hold. We got the man under artificial respiration to alleviate his pain. His heart is behaving all right but God how much shit the cleaning people had to wipe I can’t even begin to tell you. One even resigned on the stinking spot. We were thinking of putting him into a coma just to…you know, help things out.” “So this is not a joke, John?” “It sure ain’t.” “How old is he?” “33.” “How the devil could a man live so long without disinhibition?” © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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* It is not a tremendous effort to reach out to the hand from the now abysmal depths of his condition, but clearly one just spent trying vainly not to separate – not to say severe – his grasp from the salutary hand. A few things work against this evidence: he appears to be nonchalantly laying his arm on his knee, like a sybarite leisurely stretched on a plump boudoir. God alone seems to be making the effort, supported as He is by His choir of extenuated angels, to reach out to him, the ex-carefree man. He seems not to care but he does. The white of his eyes gives him away. The canthus of his eye gives him away. The commissure of his lips bewrays him. The strength in his legs bewrays him. The strongest parts of his body support him, clearly in an intense effort. His right arm supports the upper body; the two legs are firm in their purpose, steady in their resort to power. He could not show his urge and his intent not to unclasp God’s Hand in any other position. He was in the position one takes when one doesn’t work, symbolically speaking. Hand in hand with God. He could not but be positioned thus parting from God; their hands, their indexes are in the act of separation, united an instant before, now untied for eternity. Their hands are not in the act of near-union, it was simply the vision of the artist that made them appear thus. The one that painted that roof knew something about man most people have forgotten. * The quiet seas of the port are what they are. The carpenter yells at them from the shore. These idiots on that raft feign not to hear him. He knows it. He can sense they despise him. They hear him all right, but they don’t care. Only one of them is steering, The other two are lazing in the pale blue air. Birds of a feather yet here’s all and every sort. The good, the bad, the curious and the offended. The air is strangely still today. Just a couple of yards away And drifting to the quay. Idiots! They are not wanted there. He wants them to help move The jute sacks behind him. Tomorrow, he’ll watch the work From the other side of the Tower. The men up there need hands. The King is waiting. He grows impatient. If only the people up there could stop falling. * Dear John, it was sabotage, our engineers proved it. Can't tell you more. Can't have you back either. Will try and persuade boss to send you compensation. Sorry about not being a good friend. Call whenever you like. Bob. * “So you're the new guy for meds-testing. Have you done it before?” © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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“Nope. I'm here because there's a good pay.” “Whatever works. This week we'll test mozzie cream.” “Uh?” “Mosquitoes.” “Yeah, I know, but we're in January, we won't find any mosquito around.” “Tricky I know, but look in the box behind you. We'll fix that.” About fifty of them blighters were whizzing in there. On the side of the box, there was a round hole with a rubber protection. Looking again at the man, he saw him pouring cream from different tubes with numbers on them inside small cups, whistling. “Can you roll up your sleeve, please? We actually need half a dozen bites at least. So let's hope they're hungry, eh?” His smile was dazzling. The top row of his teeth was gleaming, while the bottom one was a dull yellow. “Yeah I know. I had to test two different teeth-whiteners.” * Can’t never make me mind up ‘tween left and wrang. * It’s not a matter of winning and losing It’s neither a matter of life and death It is one of protection. It is one of restraining One’s adversary’s field of possibilities Of limiting you, Because as his scope of choice widens Your own capacity of choosing narrows. That’s how fighting goes. This is the essence of battle. This is pure ma’aï. * “There! They’ve done it! ’v’had enough! I quit! I wasn’t born to clean people’s shit off the ground! I’m sick of it! Good luck to you morons, ’cos it’s without me from now on! It’s a sea of shit! Darn it! I worked my arse off to become a computer engineer on multi-million pound machines, not to do that! I’m gonna find a humane job or my name’s not Brown!” * “However wrong this ideology was, and barbaric, and despicable, and unacceptable, and terrible, and immoral, and inhumane – I perfectly know what happened there. Everybody does. But arbeit macht frei. Work makes us free men. I hate the Nazis just as any man in the street, but I hate them more when I think that they have subverted such a vital message for such a horrifying end. Even though they understood something crucial about the nature of man and crushed it under an iron foot. People cannot see a swastika now without thinking about the Nazis and this is a shame. They don't even know there are two types of swastikas. Work suffers from a dreadful reputation because like death it is crucial to our lives.” * © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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“A King must behave himself When addressing the plebe; Or perhaps was it another contrivance To do what pleases yourself? Do you have other demurrers up your sleeve Not to do the late King’s bidding? You’re sapping the work of your predecessor With such disregard. You shall have to give Back what you took them by force. This isn’t wise, my Lord. You are a precursor To Tyranny. Giving two farthings And taking three is no sane course. You are vying with the people, Sire.” “Look here, I’m working around the clock Just so they can fulfil their desire. This is no tyranny: it is pleasing the flock And securing the Kingdom. The deadliest enemy always comes From within your walls, mark my words. Taxes are just a side-effect of power; Thanks to them we live in a rational world.” * Muscular thighs coiled safely around a viperous tangle of hemp ropes: the potent glistening forearms arching at both wrists and elbows without a sound; The iron bar, in the stifled compact air, bending under sheer pressure at both ends. That obstructing rock shall be lifted: coal must as yet be quarried. * “Poetry can indeed tell a story – Black lines like rafts of words of careful craft – Skill undogged unlike these cohorts of daft Old spiteful fogeys; art and art mainly. Too many poems rotting in drawers, Like jovial friends on old photographs... Work, meetings, shopping and all; tears and laughs You know, things; well, one forgets, one falters.” * Out the tent – Oh, someone forgot his adze – Up the ladder – There’s a commotion on the upper stage, Voices overlapping each other in gibberish. © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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He mustn’t be long: Meat’s on the fire – Smoke drifting gently in the wind – For once the carpenters Aren’t on their backs. They’ll have something nice to eat – John’ll have the presence of mind To watch the fire, let’s hope – The other house had burnt down Due to their carelessness. Why were they arguing so loudly up there? Was it that the crane was broken again? It sure was an ill omen: Three times since yesterday. He couldn’t understand any of the words That were being said. * “…heard a voice from Heaven, saying…Write, from…are the dead…in the Lord…the Spirit, for they rest from their… – _ Louder! _ Ssh! _ Marge I can’t hear a bl– _ Behave yourself! _ I always tole you that priest spoke too soft. _ Nigel please, everyone’s looking at us! _ But – _ I can promise you’ll regret that.” She hissed between her clenched teeth. Margaret was resolute: he was not to spoil Mrs Eddington’s long-awaited funeral. * “An extremely rare and – pardon me the expression – Bizarre case of calenture. It usually strikes mariners Under the tropics – But I must say that the light of day Had a strange quality today. A soft yet rugose feel, An almost palpable grain, A pallor that scorched eyeballs… Yes, a very curious day it was… Pardon me? The King? Oh yes, the King. Safe and sound with an injection of mercury. We shouldn’t worry too much about his sanity Of mind, but more about his..hem...hidden nature. A mariner plunging in plains of grass when he’s at sea, I can understand. But for a King to be the people…well…” * © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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(the) roadworks ahead * Optimistic but lame. Lame because optimistic. If he really wanted to go on clasping that hand, he should have grasped the woman’s with the other, tugged at it when the time had come. The felix culpa is an easy alternative not to blame man for his infernal innate weakness. * Words not simply words strung together but Throbbing, throbbing, throbbing forever Inside the paper and the faintest tremBling running along the silent cover, Arteries of fibre pumping words, words Through a living organism never Dying, dying, dying. * Record of the session (tape-recorded then transcribed): Doctor: Please take a seat. Patient: I can't see why I should do that. I'm not staying there a minute longer. Doctor: Please take a seat and tell me what has happened. Patient: It happens that this stupid Board has issued me with a second warning, which means they just need another one to oust me. But they won't succeed, I can tell you. Doc.: Mmmmh do not do anything you could regret. Could you please – Pat.: I don't care if it's going to take ten years of my life but I'm going to sue the bastards. Doc.: Mmmmh why would you sue them? Pat.: Because they think I hate my job and that I'm sick. They are sick, I can tell. I can see it in their eyes. They hate me, too, because I love my job more than they love their children or their wife. Just because I'm not like them, just because I'm not interested in having a school of brats and a ravenous, venal wife makes me despicable. I love my job more than I care about this world. Doc.: But the world is the people, yet you help the people. Pat.: People are a mere consequence, at best a spin-off of evolution. They don't see that work is what we are meant to do because work created us. The spirit of Work breathes through us the instant our lungs fill with air. Work designed our bodies and our minds to perform whatever duties It means us to perform. Work shapes us to Its will, and requires our oath and we have to abide by its rules and principles. Work is our blood and our cells and work is what binds the elementary particles together and what moves them and what constitutes them and work is allpowerful and all-destroying. Without work we are nothing. Doc.: There, there. Mmmmh I think I will prescribe you a couple of pills for...hem...for your hypertension. They'll make you feel good. Just don't drive when you have taken them. They'll help you sleep too. Pat.: I don't want to sleep, there's work to do, didn't you hear what I just said? [...] * He wasn’t to be undone by any uptown, Potentially bribed, arrogant counsellor. He was the paradigm of upward mobility – © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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The fools on the quarry had been grovelling, Whining at his feet and he had been condescending. That had been the best legitimation for his power. He was King because the men in the street Had recognised him as such. He was a God-like entity. Nay, he was God Himself. He was the world and their work in and around. He was to be one with the people. He wanted to fuse into them, to dive and live In this growing, gurgling mass of humanity, He wanted to embrace them all, to suffocate In their midst. He wanted to drown in seas of men – Though the feeling was surging back, He couldn’t remember any of the things His courtiers said he had done. * “A brawl between beggars, a donnybrook between drunkards, this I can understand. But that… No one was seriously hurt but I don’t care a straw if one broke his nose and the other his arm. What I can’t figure out is why? They were peaceful citizens, or thought so by their neighbours. No one ever had to complain about them. Quiet buggers. Until then when they fought for apparently no reason at all and started one of the worst fisticuffs I have ever seen in my entire career. And that means something. Everyone around felt like beating the next fool. I cannot understand. These two idiots sparked a war. Indeed we put an end to this silly fracas. But what a mess. If people could turn the energy they put into that fight to some good end, surely we would get rid of, I don’t know, of the hole in the ozone layer or of global warming or we would bring peace to the world.” * “Art thou rescinding thy orders, O King?” War is a momentum, a weight in exponential acceleration. Numbness of the mind. Limpness of the limbs. “Art thou, Sire? The troops are awaiting thy commandment.” A hundred thousand men at my call. A hundred thousand potential dead bodies. Plus the others on the other side. Rot. Blood. Cries. How did it come to this? “My Lord?” Time waits for no man and never stops. Destiny is thus. One word. Death and Fame and Glory. One word. Hesitation. Yes. No. His robes seem now of the cheapest samite. Gleam and Glory gone. This soldier cannot, must not leave him to his thoughts. This man must bear his word hence to the men. A hundred thousand souls resting so lightly at the tip of his lips, yet making his shoulders hunch, yet pressing down on his spine. There had been the invitation from that King and he had wanted no counsel to prepare it; there had been his hypertrophied ego, then the quarrel and raised voices and the incapacity to understand one another. Now the two of them, the Kings of two nations, the divine representatives of God on Earth, are on the brink of war but a safe count of yards away from the battlefield. And men. Thousands of © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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them. Teeming like ants. The first potential manual power for achieving things on earth, and the first victims of his own rashness. Where was the time when he was just a Fool and quite content to be so, when he was begging for a little bread and quite content to quote or tell a joke as a payment? Everymen are Fools. Why hadn’t he kept his head firmly on his shoulders? Myriads of men would still be having it. Why hadn't he kept his loud mouth shut? He has to come to a decision. Could they not settle this between Fools? “Sire?” * She had said “Come with me” and had turned elegantly away and her mane of hair had swung lightly in the air, and this mane of hair had a presence, a wholesomeness in the face of the universe. Her perfume had flown to his nostrils and was more enchanting than ever; was even headier than the pungent poppies waving in the faint breeze. He followed her and even though she was not looking he knew she was attentive to every one of his moves. She wore her straw hat with the black ribbon and was clasping in her delicate hand her blue parasol, but that was of no importance. She was important. No one else mattered. * Mr Brown thought gloomily, sitting on his worn-out sofa: if they haven’t done it by the end of the week, I’ll do it myself. The thought made him wince. * Fiddlesticks! No one could extract that much coal in so little time. Even so devoted a servant couldn’t sacrifice that much of his soul to the God of Work. * Worthwhile Opportunities through Resources and Knowledge * workworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkwork work work work work workwork work work work work work work work workwork work work work work work work work work work work workwork work work work work work work work work work work workwork work work work work work work work work work work work work work work work workworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkworkwork

* Crestfallen as he was, and jobless, free now he was. Though he had to tend to this black eye. ‘Twas stinging. He smil’d; gloom recess’d somewhat and jinglin’ and bangin’ pick’d up his hat and on went he, down the slope, towards the city. * The men had travailed and many had died, And spells of work after spells of work They had managed to reach the nether clouds – And they were still working in the murk. The whole monument God had levelled – © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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Stones, tongues, hands God had bedevilled. * The crow sailed away from the murder. while Oscar Wilde frayed the warm mouther. * “Yes, sometimes, under certain circumstances, a beggar can be choosy, my friend. You have made me confess what I dared not speak in the obscure night and you have made me reach shores I thought were too far behind the horizon, all through hardships and unnecessary cruelty you inflicted upon me. I have been forced to bear the consequences of your mistakes and your errors of judgements, of the devilry you have wrought, but that I do not mind, not any more. You have lured me with the promise of work, and I have failed to recognise the smell of your treacherous paroles. Now that I am here, with my back against the wall, a beggar with no home, no money and more clothes than talents, I can still choose to remain thus and to move on by my own means, for there is something you will not strip myself of whilst I breathe: my freedom to act. I'm not afraid to make a mistake, a lifelong mistake, even one that would seal my time here; I'm not to serve that in which I don't believe, whatever its name or creed is if it doesn't speak a language I can comprehend. The streets, I have known them. The choice between food and a book, I have first made it when I was eighteen. Hunger is still less powerful than thirst, but you do not know of which I speak, even though you had your share of shit. I will choose what my instinct and the little wisdom I have acquired will steer me to. I will be my own captain, and should I be even stripped of a vessel, that will be of small importance, for I shall build a new one from my own body: my ribs shall become hull and my bones rafts, my veins ropes and rigging, my skin sails and flag. My pupils each shall become a compass and my blood rum for the crew. Yes, a beggar can be choosy if failure has never been an option. Sacrifice, so you know my friend, is not even a last resort, it is an alternative. You do not even begin to imagine what machinery you have set into motion, for you have tempted a desperate man.” * To work is to earn. To live is to learn. To choose is to spurn. To dream is to churn. Or more or less a combination of all of the above. * Aleksei looked at his hands. They were legends. Himself was a legend. And legends die heroically. Or retire anonymously. He had preferred retirement. The country had stepped into a new era where he was no longer needed. Many legends like him passed now like shadows on walls in the setting sun. History was working to its foreseen end. Coal was not infinite. And some people said it polluted the air. Uh. Work had had a long life. Work had come to be synonymous with coal. Had burnt like it, endlessly, as it was thought a few years back. Was a tremendous source of energy, of hope for millions of tovaritches. Petrol and gas were considered a revolution whilst they were only ersatz. Mechanics like him were relegated to © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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simple hands, simple instruments forbidden to act on their own even for so simple a thing as turning a screw. He had believed in himself. The fool. Work was dead. * There had been a shadow lurking at the back of her head all afternoon, ever since they had left the poppy field. A silhouette cloaked in black merging with the trees. Had Camille felt it, too? It had been a pleasant day, they had come back to the house and had changed clothes for the afternoon had become warm; she had chosen her white silk dress and her green sunshade. But their walk had a bitter tinge. The wind had blown off her favourite straw hat. The dark, heavy shadow lay more heavily upon her mind. Jean also looked sad. The clouds were entangled, direction-less, chaotically ordered. She looked down. Her shadow in the setting sun seemed ominous, like a trace of death. * “…Bloody Fool!...” his face shows nothing of the fury inside. “…What a dunce! Idiot! Loggerhead!...” “Arms at the side!” “…Numskull! You blockhead!...” “Not before the gun blows!” “…What a quagmire I threw myself in! A face-to-face, a silly duel for a silly dustup! Can’t we have the soldiers ready for a bustle up? Come on! This is just too damn in–” * Extract from a long lost play. Author unknown. Tentative reconstruction of what seems to be the opening scene. While Eratosthenes and Gogo are waiting for their work to begin, having nothing better to do, they talk to each other. Perhaps they are at a crossroads, their chin resting on top of their hands resting on some tool, like a shovel. Perhaps they are almost facing each other. Eratosthenes (pointing backwards over his shoulder with his thumb): Eh, what do they work for? Gogo (shrugging): They work for their living. Eratosthenes (tutting): Isn't living enough for them? Gogo (still shrugging): They have to work something out about it. Eratosthenes (still tutting): Isn't work enough for them? Gogo (shaking his head from right to left): It's not sufficient. It never is. Like life. They have to find something else to satisfy themselves and sustain the illusion of living. Eratosthenes (shaking his head from left to right): Like...amusements? © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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Gogo (nodding): Something of the kind. They remain silent for a while. Eratosthenes (pointing backwards over his shoulder with a jerk of his head): Eh, in a way, they work like dogs. Gogo (pointing downwards with his chin): Yet they crawl like snakes. Eratosthenes (with a grimace of disgust): And live like rats. Gogo (with very quick jerks of his heads): But move like ants. Eratosthenes (articulating very slowly, one eyebrow raised, the other furrowed, prognathous): Eventually die like flies. They remain silent for a longer while. Eratosthenes (raising his head): Eh, do something! Gogo (raising his head): Oh, about what? Both return to their previous position. Again, long pause. Eratosthenes (both eyebrows raised into a question mark): Eh, what are we supposed to do? Gogo (thinking hard, concentrating): I forgot! (appears to remember) Eh, you tell me, you're the one supposed to remember here! Eratosthenes (thinking hard): something to do with work, for sure...(appears to give up thinking, then sighing) but what? The rest of the manuscript is torn. * “A was sentenced to twenty-se’en year o’ ‘ard labour on charge o’ manslau'er I bea'ed ’emp and I dregd'd the river ’Ccasion’ly caugh' a swollen belly stiff or saw a one wi’ ’angman’s ’alter’s t’riff Preferr’d tha’ to wark Couldna use me biff but lick Wark’s too ’ard for a ’igh liver” * “I guess this work will last me a lifetime, and beyond. Let's hope I'll find someone to take on when I'll pass out,” said out loud the young man who, whilst rolling up his sleeves, was on the verge of undertaking his first attempt at building a bridge to the moon. © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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* “Right. Been on an assembly-line before?” “Err…no.” “Ok, no sweat. It’s like a store. Take a handful of peas from this bucket, Then throw a couple of carrots in there. If you’re short of tatters no need to fret, Just push the button and we’ll fix whatever You need.” * The work of men is a seed, and it needs a fertile soil, sun and water and loving care. Work is life. * The man said mektoub then The man whispered amen. The venom worked. John Brown expired. * He couldn’t help looking sadly at the shadow spread at her feet. He knew they would have to part, one day. He knew he would miss their walks, their banter, her picking flowers and smelling them, caressing them, her smelling sweeter than them. Her parting lips as she caught her breath walking up the hill. He knew he would have to grow up and go to school, that she would have to get married, that he would have to work and get married in his turn and would never be given the chance to be with the woman for whom he really cared. Growing up was a nasty business and work was just an excuse for not standing up to it. * “Trabajo!” “Arbeit!” “Trabalho!” “Werk!” “Arubato!” “Εργασία!” “Paбота!” “Ok, ok I got it, both of you!...but man... too much sun...it’s too hot...I thought you guys dug the holes with machines.” “No, no, no; shovels are much cheaper...and more reliable, if you rule man out that is. Come on, still two to go.” “Wait a minute. Lemme catch my breath.” “Shame the horizontal ones would just like that very same thing. I thought you had said you were cut for the job.” “I may have underestimated your trade but –” “Yes, yes, we know. Your name’s John Brown –”

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“Exactly! Whatever the colour of the trade, I’ll paint my way through it. Digging graves has its merit, sure now I know.” * The King’s bullet had left nothing but A tiny hole in the habit under the armpit. His had whistled; he’d seen everyone dodge. They had had to settle this with their hands – But the kingly podge he could not dislodge – Had suddenly seen stars and eaten sands. * He was the typical second man. The man who always does the work * The master assassin had caught the influenza so he had replaced him off the cuff, quasi extempore. They were short of bodkins and he had not his licence for firearms, yet. He’d have to find something else and throw the procedure to the dogs. The work had to be done. * [Apparently the two characters are still waiting at the same crossroads, hands and chin resting on the tip of the handle of their shovels, still waiting for their work to commence.] Eratosthenes (sounding miserable): I'm hungry. Gogo (emotionless): Me too. Eratosthenes (concerned, raising his head): What are you going to do about it? Gogo (seeming off-hand tone, but not quite): I have a chocolate bar in my pocket. Eratosthenes (Tutting first, then serious): Chocolate is not food proper to sate hunger...Milk, white or dark? Gogo (barytone voice): Dark. Eratosthenes (philosophical): From holy food to sinful food. Times change because of greed. May I have some? Gogo (scolding): You won't sate neither your hunger nor your gourmandise. Eratosthenes (philosophically first, then pragmatically): Neither of them need be sated, though it could abate some of my hunger. Gogo (realistic): Well, I daresay we won't get to work any time soon. Here you are.

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Both munch on the chocolate bar which has been split into two even parts. They apparently eat without changing their position. Gogo (looking in the distance): Any abatement yet? Eratosthenes (patting his stomach): Let it sink in somewhat. Only munching and their breaking chunks of chocolate with their teeth are to be heard. Gogo (pointing backwards over his shoulder with his thumb): What sort of work do they do? Eratosthenes (suddenly looking gloomy): It's terrible work they do. Terrible, I tell you. For all the gold in the world I wouldn't want to do what they do. Here with the quiet dead is fine. Don't you ever forget this, Gogo, ever. Both seem to ponder on the last remark. After a time, they seem to relax. Eratosthenes (picking his teeth with his tongue): Any more chocolate? Gogo (suddenly looking sullen): Finitatum est, companion. Eratosthenes (looking even more sullen, resting more heavily his chin on his hands by lowering his hips): Consummatum est? Ergo alea jecta est. * “Come you scoundrel, mano a mano! Ah! Now, where’s your cheek, eh, eh? Lost your tongue eh? Have at you!” The two hosts cheered and embraced As the ex-King now new-Fool was dethroned By a blazing blow right in the eye. * Left to his thoughts on the brink of death, John Brown saw that nothing was written; He saw that the man had used poison And not the twin daggers from Aleth. He felt no pang of regret leaving A world where no good work could be done… * “Any questions?” “No, thank you.” “All right! err…in what branch did you work before?” “I was in … err … P.R.” “Oh, you look the part.” “Apparently not.”

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* “…and God in His infinite wisdom invented Work.” * [I am you shabti] “You are my shabti,” you shall say. You shall also say “Here I am” for there is work to do East and West. The deserts need expanding, Hammurabi hath decreed it. The Ba gone to Thoth on the wing of the Ibis…what am I to do? Awl and chisel – carvers of the ancient world. * work is like wheat sown in June when the fields are high and plane. * “The best way to appreciate your job is to imagine yourself without one.” Oscar Wilde (Irish Poet, Novelist, Dramatist and Critic, 1854-1900) * On her face were so many pimples That no one could see her cute dimples. How could she go to work with such A face? Acne is in adulthood a blotch. * He left whatever he had to leave: Love, family, friends. He sold his house, his car, His bicycle and all earthly possessions. For the horizons he used to dream of And for the promise of work. * And ineluctably for he was a thing of doubt – Deep within: an intense need to be reassured was at work. * condoning was his trademark. * Must surely have been slain for dirty work John Arm-Strong At the hand of a known traitor his death surely was one. * ER Report #GHS17 #45-11052011– Nurse Emily X (36-159) © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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Patient #45-11052011 (Ref #50-2011) Male, Asian, 6' 2”, 53.6 kgs. Medical antecedents: Stroke (CVA) Patient suffers from a fully diagnosed SBS (see Dr. John Brown, Psychology Unit). Admitted at 15:34PM for another stroke subsequent to both verbal and physical attacks on members of the Board of Directors of the Company that hires him, according to the person who accompanied him (no ID, the person has left). * Work! Work! They cry it as if it was freedom or the sea! * Work will never end. Either in the form of a worm obeying to its instinct, a coroner wanting to understand and save the world, a forensic surgeon understanding this same world by checking the innards of a dead body, a stone falling on somebody's head, a former prostitute back on the other side of life, a fool back from scratch or millions of John Browns inheriting this earth every day that God in His infinite wisdom makes. Multi-faceted work kaleidoscopes every sides of life. Mirrors our worn-out faces dulled by years of worries and strain. Work is our fountain of youth, our cornucopia of knowledge, the boon to our advancement, our very last resort to our safekeeping. Our manna, our panacea. Some say that what will ever last on this godforsaken tract of land that is called earth is either the fruits of work itself, its ruins, its foundations or its impacts on the sediments, or the very idea of work, vagabonding in the ranges like the ghost of a deity. These people may be right. They may even go further and trace those letters in the sand or on the surface of the water and see to their greatest wonderment that those signs will hold and remain inscribed as if etched by a supernatural fire. Let us not forget that God created work before any thing else. He even created it without thinking about it, without giving it a name. It was the most natural of the things he did. Since then work has become protean, exponentially. The book of Job reminds us that work can be loved and despised. Each to his own. Work is the wooden crutch that prevents us from limping. Some are even luckier and bear it in the form of a wooden leg. One problem persists: it still makes one hell of a noise.

© Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009-2011

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