Laughter is Chemical.

That laughter qua essence (in her infinite forms) always chooses to express herself outwardly in the same characteristic huffing/shaking action may be perfectly, if inscrutably, accurate--the little joke that laughter enjoys for herself.  We travel from laughter's essence (what essence?) through various psychological processes, -- archetype, terror, nervous tick, coping mechansim, whatnot -- to laughter's clucking and barking noise as a recognizable end-product.  However, Ockham's Razor urges us to simplify, to make laughter one thing, and one thing only -- the orphan noises escaping from our mouths for no particular (or essential) reason.  We shall discard Ockham, he is a bore.  We choose to hold axiomatic that mirth is not a form of the hiccups.

A funnel and an umbrella are the same in that they both open upward, they both direct the flow of water.  So is laughter always the same phenomenon.

I'll tell thee everything I can;
There's little to relate.
I saw an aged aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
"Who are you, aged man?' I said.
"and how is it you live?"
His answer trickled through my head
Like water through a sieve.

He said "I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat:
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men," he said,
"Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread --
A trifle, if you please."

But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That they could not be seen.
So, having no reply to give
To what the old man said,
I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!"
And thumped him on the head.

His accents mild took up the tale:
He said "I go my ways,
And when I find a mountain-rill,
I set it in a blaze;
And thence they make a stuff they call
Rolands' Macassar Oil --
Yet twopence-halfpenny is all
They give me for my toil."

But I was thinking of a way
To feed oneself on batter,
And so go on from day to day
Getting a little fatter.
I shook him well from side to side,
Until his face was blue:
"Come, tell me how you live," I cried,
"And what it is you do!"

He said "I hunt for haddocks' eyes
Among the heather bright,
And work them into waistcoat-buttons
In the silent night.
And these I do not sell for gold
Or coin of silvery shine
But for a copper halfpenny,
And that will purchase nine."

"I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,
Or set limed twigs for crabs;
I sometimes search the grassy knolls
For wheels of Hansom-cabs.
And that's the way" (he gave a wink)
"By which I get my wealth --
And very gladly will I drink
Your Honour's noble health."

I heard him then, for I had just
Completed my design
To keep the Menai bridge from rust
By boiling it in wine.
I thanked much for telling me
The way he got his wealth,
But chiefly for his wish that he
Might drink my noble health.

And not, if e'er by chance I put
My fingers into glue
Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot
Into a left-hand shoe,
Or if I drop upon my toe
A very heavy weight,
I weep, for it reminds me so,
Of that old man I used to know --

Whose look was mild,
Whose speech was slow,
Whose hair was whiter than the snow,
Whose face was very like a crow,
With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,
Who seemed distracted with his woe,
Who rocked his body to and fro,
And muttered mumblingly and low,
As if his mouth were full of dough,
Who snorted like a buffalo --
That summer evening, long ago,
A-sitting on a gate.

Temp Work Koan.

Ok.  So I got another temp job.  This one is absolutely quintessentially normal.  The heart of Temporariness.  Off-white (possibly bone) walls, cream (or sand) filing cabinets.  Recessed fluorescent lighting.  Cubicles.  A vague miasma of expectations amidst an utter dearth of actual work to do.  So I spent a few hours of today inventing my own Temp Work Koan (or catechism).  Here it is.


What should I do?
Appear busy.


In what way?
Quietly.


Should I actually be busy?
Once or twice a day.  Then let it subside.


Is there an order to the Universe?
Absolutely.


What is the order of the Universe?
Dates are filed chronologically.  Names are filed alphabetically.  Files are catalogued in nesting folders.


Is there nothing else?
The complexity of the world is a blind, a veil, a fog.  All possibilities are filed.


What is the work of my soul?
To strike the keys in combination, to switch screens.  To take frequent breaks.  To sit.


Is there nothing else?
There is MineSweeper.


What choice must I make in my life?
If in Word, you must choose margins, shape of bullets, size of headings.  In Excel, there is the grid width, and the format of numbers.


What if my soul desires freedom?
Avoid Powerpoint.  It is not really a program.  There is no freedom in the vain cascade of slides.


Will this world overwhelm me?
There is no call that cannot be transferred to voicemail.


What is my responsibility?
To arrive on time.  To leave on time.  To resemble one who is working.  To stay free of the fabric of work.


What is my relationship to the work?
Tangential.  Your work is not the work of the permanents, or of your superiors.


What of my superiors?
No one is necessary.  There is no pre-eminence.  To ignore this fact, they will ignore you.  Do not shy away from the employer's gaze.  You have the force.


What is my work?
The work of your soul.  The exacting progress of time.


Is there nothing else?
There is PhotoShop.


Can I truly be free?
Freedom will crash your computer.  A Temporary does not desire the attention of permanent employees.


What is the work of my soul?
Sit quietly.  Listen to the hum of the air-conditioning network.  Listen to the buzz of the fluorescent lights.  The formica, the partition fabric, the surface of the post-it notes.  There you will find the work.  The work is to be.  Until the end of your shift.  That is all.



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