I noticed last night that the broadcast networks seem a little pixelated, lower quality picture, less detailed, [via satellite] than over the air. M said she wishes I hadn’t said that because then she noticed it. The installer guy said M’s husband wouldn’t realize it had been installed. She would surprise me with it—but she said, no, he notices everything.
My consciousness is a burden to me, I wrote in yesterday’s pocket page. Not most of the time it isn’t, but these days at school when I’m tired, it feels like a burden. What to do with my mind, my attention, when I don’t want to be at work—when all I want to do is be somewhere else, preferably resting—
[Brother] N is right—it’s stupid to complain about your job—and yet, there is this idea, for white-collar work at least (and maybe this is absent from blue-collar work) that you should like your job, that your work should suit you, match your interests—that your work is more a part of your identity than it is, maybe, for blue-collar workers.
[From journal of Fri., 23 Feb. 2007, Journal 81, pages 199-200]
MonkeyMoonMachine 