Sunday night a drunken driver yelled at me: “Hey, chief! Get a job!”
Angered by my headband, he chopped his way to significance by condemning appearances.
“I have a job, at 5 a.m., doing a college man’s work!” Then I added: “Peace!”
“Take a bath!” he yelled back. Fresh from swimming and a shower, I walked on. I never asked him to invade my person. His dead spirit and dirty soul were an affront to my shell. He, American Legionnaire, was upset that I resembled an Indian – not the colorful circus chief, but a man of the plains and forests. What strange guilt moves him? Most of his forefathers wore beards, no doubt. Like me.
Learn from the spider. Its tenacity and ability to hide.
The side it reveals about the mayor, too.
As for the mills, I’m not interested in them because they’re old or quaint, though that can be a recruiting point when we’re hiring for our laboratory and new enterprises. No, I’m interested in the mills for their vibes. Have you ever walked through those chambers and felt the energy? There’s something lingering in the walls and floors, an overlapping presence of people from the past. There should be a nurturing sense of patient labor – the rolling belts and clacking machinery, too – all one step at a time, as endless as the river.
That’s a sense of history, too. I suppose. But you’ll never feel this in an assembly-line factory.
If we’re going to get quality productivity, we need the right setting.
Maybe he’s expecting a cut. In the meantime, show Silent Movies. For now, you can hire Wolf Jester to run the place – just don’t reveal our ultimate objectives. Managing, touring, recording, the works.
But don’t let him make any offerings. Besides, I don’t think Pachamama would take kindly to that cheap beer you drink.