All over the world people are expressing their creativity.
It is exactly as Karl Marx expressed it somewhere. Everyone is capable of creativity.
On WordPress gardeners write their daily blogs, and on Whattpad 14 and 15 year olds write out their thinly disguised lives.
Anne has rejected a TA placement; she has told herself she will be kinder to herself. The immeasurable stress caused by assimilating the role of a sick and absent LSA, not once this year but 3 times, has taken its toll on her. She feels sick now when the agency rings her, and as was the case with the old stress every time he put in an application for the child benefit, she can feel the roots of her hair tingling. She has not left the agency in case she should lose this job.
Anne realises that all her life she has struggled to remember consecutive and sequential steps, and that she has compensated for this by putting in overtime and going over procedures where there are several consecutive actions (like using the Epos till), several times until she had memorised them.
She had usually been in a position of responsibility; a manager or a key holder, and so no-one noticed; or at least, understood; when she was training once, a manager had told her that she was making the other managers look bad. It was true that she had always compensated by doing an hour or two free overtime; the book work took her a while, and she needed complete silence. Yet she had never known others didn’t, until she had the opportunity to observe a friend who volunteered tackle the book work for her while she dealt with an impromptu last minute donation to the charity she worked for. Her friend had a weakness; he had made an error and not noticed it. Anne’s attention to detail, she knew was world class. But who cared? It was so easy to make errors that nobody noticed, or that went overlooked. There were errors in Jane Eyre and Mr Stink, and several Penguin poetry publications. Nobody seemed to care.
She felt disgusted with herself for not being able to work for a solid year and earn a regular income. She felt under huge pressure, even though Jim had told her she only needed to contribute to the bills; her precarious predicament meant that she didn’t dare pay him too much in case she and to borrow it back. The car kept breaking down and last year it had cost £1000.
Jim had persuaded her not to sell the car and leant her the money, but she could feel the tension after a year of only managing to contribute a few hundred pounds.
She had talent. She was a graduate. She had got up at 6 am for 6 months, driven 60 miles a day for 2 months, supported struggling pupils, and she felt as though all her hard work had gone unnoticed. The last place had called her in to the office at the end of her placement and told her that they couldn’t afford to pay her. She’d offered to work part time.
Sometimes, on the days she didn’t work, it was a struggle to get out of bed.
She would have got a job in a cafe, but she was in her early 50s and now it was hard work lifting the trays into the dishwasher. She lifted weights at home every day, but her arms just weren’t as strong as they used to be.
Anne read her work back.
It all sounds like excuses, she thought. And then reminded herself of all the bike rides she had been on, trying to stay motivated, and the blog she had written for a year to keep her mind active while she rewrote her PhD application. She was writing 2 books as well, but how this world didn’t seem to value anything unless it made you money. And Anne was barely making enough money to do anything more than take her children out for the occasional meal or tea, pick them up from the next county, or visit them and her mother for a day out. She knew how important it was to eat well, after that year that she had barely eaten a thing whilst studying and binged on cake, just to keep paying the council tax and the rent to the landlady, putting on so much weight that Jim had begun to follow skinny women in jeans around. She was spending the rest of the money on that, when she had it.
God had said it was a sin not to use your talents, and God knew she was at least attempting to do that.
Trump had apparently, in so far as you could believe the news in today’s “Fake News” era, rejected globalisation. Trump’s rhetoric made her feel sick. She admired his work ethic, it was similar to her own – when she had work. But to reject globalisation; with the internet. How was this even possible? Anyone who had read John Donne or Hemmingway must know that no man is an island.