On May 30th, I am reviewing the terms of my work contracts. To resist the urge to call executives and say that I’m getting fired from everywhere to nowhere, despite the consequences, I have to put in an unexpectedly large amount of effort. I have a favorite job, which I see the meaning in. It's just that something broke in me.
On June 1, I am going to the farm for a week. A veranda overlooking green fields, the border of states and worlds, huge trees, a kingdom of birds, a beautiful old house full of books, paintings and carpets, lilacs still blooming in June.
And when the work ends, I start rushing about: what now? To go for a walk? Take pictures of birds? To swim in a lake? Just lie there? I am at a loss when I do not define myself as work and play. Who am I when I am not writing or reading? When am I not an effective work function and not a consumer of content?
I took a bird lens with me, but my whole birdwatching was that I watched a woodpecker crawl along the trunk of a tree to which my hammock was attached. I didn't take a swimsuit with me, but it's even better without it in the lake. Every day I went for walks in the fields. I watched every sunset. Every dawn a bird sang outside my window.
I went over three hills and did a performance that no one saw, no one documented: I chose a tree and stood barefoot under it, growing into the ground, becoming a tree, simply existing: without work, without entertainment, without society, without benefit, without achievements. Being is my act of radical resistance. Resistance to the society of capitalism and consumption. A society where man is reduced to function, efficiency and usefulness.
Seeing a lilac with five petals, for the first time, I did not dream of eternal death for the tyrant, but a day of love for myself.