Writer? Get Interned.

I write to you. I write to businesses. Particularly writing enclaves. The esteemed of words and wit.

The tendency to exploit the skills, talent and desperation of the young with little to no remuneration for their efforts is a rampant phenomena in all professions. Yet some industries have a particular penchant for plucking at the vulnerability of the yet not established. This letter is a diatribe at the state that many students and graduates face, even casual workers. Part frustration, indignation and incredulity, if you agree or abhor what’s placed here, there have been just too many ‘Gain a fantastic set of skills and experience through working in our bustling office’, Pay, ‘unpaid’, for it to be fair. Or decent.

Usually not one to become riled up, the path well trodden has been to let bygones be bygone. I have never written to my local, state or federal PM or exhausted every possible facet of bureaucratic loop hole. I lightly dabbled once, to alleviate an irksome thorn in my side (parking fines being pertinent in this category), but to no avail. I have generally waited with, on the whole, good graces as land lords and contractors make their tribute to the Ents; as one must deeply consider whether fixing a leaking pipe is of true and sound merit.

But it is now, as the end of my university career looms, as tertiary education seeks to shed and shake me from its protective cocoon, that my embers have been lit.

Flippantly typing in words to retrieve from the depths of encrypted websites, the job that will see me finally rest in edified bliss, I stumble across a problem.

Internships; Unpaid.

At first I think to shrugging off the unease these words usher in. Yet, as their frequency becomes more and more apparent, disdain, horror and indignation start to well, thankfully, over the tears.

I splutter and start. Oh great reality, the system, the man, you have asked me to fork out, however many thousands in ‘credible’ education. Asked me to sit in endless tutorials as Boris expounds on how the mercantilist framework of economic organization is a clear sign of latent Oedipulian tendencies in men. An argument you could be enticed to be a part of, but not when you had no time for lunch because you were cramming to be able to make Boris desist.

And now having made it out, having started to tip toe in the meadow and blinking, stepping into the sun, starting to allow your heart to beat, to thrill for what you may really be capable of when your hands are free. To flail and build and craft at your own flights of fancy. To see the light dance and scurry, birds flit and swoop in air currents and dreams you will soon ride…

The system, the companies, the visionaries, the industry leaders send their beaming PRs to say: Umm, oh sweet awkwardness. Sorry to interrupt. That really did sound great. It was so moving. You moved me. I was moved. Tremendously. But. How sweet though. Yes. It just simply isn’t going to work. You see. You’ll be dead. Because you won’t be paid. We can’t pay you. It just simply isn’t done. It’s an industry thing. You see, we’ve all agreed. I hope you understand. So really you can’t write or code or design or animate or sing or haha, how funny, I do get ahead of myself, there is the last one, oh yes, eat. Or be warm. Neumonia will get you, and a pinch of self-loathing and you’ll be allowed the general fist shaking ‘I hate the man’ system loathing. But that’s neither here nor there. Please keep trying. You’re a star. Really, so much promise.

I scroll down, reading the tag lines.

At the end of Lewis’ Silver Chair there is a climax and a witch. The witch at her most persuasive gets out her harp and starts crooning. That’s what the tag lines are, croons. Croons to attempt to induce the casting off of reason and sense for the dream of contributing time, grey matter and blessed heart to companies with million dollar quarterly earnings because they really, do, need the help. And you are so incredibly bright. We’d like to have someone like you onboard. For free.

So agitated, I feel a compulsion to done a beret, squash baguette and sons into my rucksack and beeline for the closest common green to stir up my brothers and sisters, for today we march.

I do not seek to be wealthy. I would rather avoid such hardship. But to be paid for the zealousness that is to be poured into work, to productivity, to give lease to the ideas that frolic and bounce having sought honour and respect, why, that would be swell.

Societal and economic modalities demand submission to the entrenched system of money. That is much of the currency of co-operation between each other, the movement of stuff en mass, to live and continue breathing. I’d like the opportunity and dignity of giving it a go, striving to not be a burden on my family and country.

Dear businesses, it’d be great if you could help us out.

Pay interns?

A

Value-Vocation Hunters; running the race with a limp and no map.

Value. Vocations. Me, oh, my.

#NoToStatic

It seems in one way or another we’re all hurtling towards them. Or trying. Or at least limping. There are, of course, the sprinters, the lithe athletes, that with majestic leaps seem to fly over the heads of the more feeble. Racing down their version of wall street, clutching at brief cases or portfolios filled with passionate dreams, ambition, smarts, so much smarts, expectations, adrenaline and as much as they don’t want to admit it, hope, loads and loads of hope. In their case, hope doesn’t crush but bolsters, an androgynous resilience production chain, churning out steps, mere steps. Putting one foot in front of the other. Even with small steps, you still leave the place you were, to a new surrounding and thank goodness, ensure the appeasement of the Coalition against Being Static.

Get Across The Line

The lithe ones. They’re going to make it in the frenzied fray. They have their youth and elbows and caffeine, to muscle their way through the horde, to get them across the line. Even though the line is in fluid flux, jostling and oscillating in size and place and demands. The line, the success may be in perpetual motion, tantalisingly close one moment, and then yanked by the mysterious competitive force further away. But they’ll keep chasing the green fields of progress, plans, projects and innovation and accolades and momentum. Didn’t you know? They were called to do this from day dot, day 1, sub clause A, index 1.

Dynamic Frontiers

They will be the frontier, they will be the new paradigm, the will be the ignition. Fie on stillness, fie on the quiet, fie on the same, fie on the passive and stagnant. I incredulously tilt my head, to perhaps, through a different angle, manoeuvre myself into their percpective. I try to peek over onto their map, the routes they’ve taken and desire to take, obstacles they’ve surmounted. Perhaps I can glean from others, a target, to stop flailing my bow around and train it, with a steady and calculated gaze, my heart beat slowing, my breathe measured, all else falling away, to know and with assurance, rest in the peace of at least, bloomin’ knowing my desired trajectory.

I’ve lost my map

It seems as if I’m scrounging around in the dark. Pawing at whatever might feel like a calling or vocation. Clutching at wisps of interest and intrigue. But what are you good at dear? What sparks your heart into flutter and pulse a racing? What task could make 4pm turn into 4am with but a blink of your utterly absorbed eye? Oh golly. When these questions are fired externally and internally I head for the hills or sleep. Sleep is most effective because you escape the grating, internal voice that chirps up at the slightest trigger; that friend is going overseas, they got that job, they’re getting married or drat, that is an exceptional photograph!

The internal voice sashays up and smarmily drips, “So you’ve had breakfast today. Whoop di doo. You have fed yourself and have subsequently unlocked the Human of 5 years old level, to unlock Human of 6 years old, brush teeth before midday”.

“So dear what’s the plan?” “How do you seek to unlock Human of 23 years old?””What’s on the cards for you now?”. I frantically go through the options at hand. Lie? No. Wax Lyrical about vague possibilities that hover on the smoggy horizon? Possible, if I can hustle up the energy. Or, the truth? Look, thanks for these superbly insightful questions, but I’ve lost my map. It was here, or at least fleetingly so, for like a second when I was 13. Honestly, I had it in my hand and then, zoop, it was gone, I think I put it down somewhere between watching West Wing, wanting to be a fictional communications officer and figuring out that you can’t live on pasta for 2 years straight. Sorry. Really I am. Believe you me, I would give almost anything to unpack with much bravado and aplomb that This Is My Thing And I Will Do It Will The Zealousness of Zeus Regardless of the Setbacks and Drawbacks and Obstacles and Self Doubt and Confusion and No Money and Boredom and Irritation and Guilt.

Frustration at succumbing to the common

How glib. How common. Yet succumbing to the pathos of uncertainty instils in me a sense of martyr- like mediocrity. Beating into our heads with relentless force, those questions of, where are you going? What are you going to do? Use your skills! Steward them for the greater cause. These questions, these voices stem not only from the aggregate mass of value seeking/ clamouring in the great wide world, but the filtered through, internal narrative. But the worst? For me? Guilt. Guilt that with all that I’ve been given, all the capacity, all the education, all the friends, all the access to technology, I can’t whip up, like a simple, but sturdy, pasta with sauce from a jar, a dream or two, to give back, to God, to the people of the world. How tiring, how passé, the incessant introspection that this time of life can elicit.

Grit your teeth and be honest

Being silent is not a solution. Perhaps I have hid behind a wall of mute, yet dignified self- righteousness, a protective layer to acknowledging my disorientation and turbulence. Like a donkey who has painted themselves with white stripes, a foolish attempt to run with the pack of zebras, I have attempted to absolve myself into The Ones That Know, who still have their maps.

Well, I don’t.
I know not where I’m headed.
I don’t know who with.
I don’t know to what I will contribute.
I don’t know what The Great Plan Is.
But I’m darn well going to trust Him. I hope to speak more about God later. But he’s the reason I crawl out of bed. The reason I get on my bike to cycle to classes I am meant to adore. The reason and strength to me bashing my way through hemmed in self-focus that so easily ensnares.

Friend.

Know that’s it’s ok to trudge on, without neon lights, without a map, without a chartered course. There are many of us, lolloping around, like ungainly vagabonds, grasping, for the moment, at straws, but you never know when you’ll happen on upon a great big bough that you can wield around with peppy joy, and give us all hope.

All about
Oh, and I’ve got to chime in with. It’s not all about me. Thank, the flipping, goodness.

Strive on dear wandering sojourner. Know that I’m staggering about the wilderness with you. Meet up for a chai Thurs?

a.

Being Terrified and Inspired, A Cynic’s Tug-of-War.

A stumble and jumble through the themes of life, work, motivation, passion, raison d’etre and those rare creatures that completely and unashamedly adore what they are doing.

Sometimes I’m so petrified of failure that I won’t start. I simply won’t start. I’ve only ever heard it spoken about once. Procrastination, that is, being a purposeful (perhaps unconscious) defensive move against the crippling, stunting and nausea inducing paranoia of failure or imperfection.

Do you know the steps?

I am moved to quaking longing, self- detestment and sporadic moments of encouragement upon stumbling into rare points of human light, motivation and resilience, whether they be creatives or not, for in them I see a fuel that so richly, authentically and insightfully propels. It seems as if they don’t need to struggle, that this business of output, this production, is but a by-product of their zealousness and passion, of being swept up in the world, being fascinated by it, seeking to enter the dance, and then, blow me down, knowing all the steps.

The candidate and the resume

I read a quirky digital resume the other day. The candidate had gone above and beyond the call of duty to stick out like a brilliant, peculiar, insatiably driven, sincerely and joyously passionate, results tuned instrument of sparkling success and profound ‘value’.

It was not the brilliance of the vocabulary that intrigued; the lyrical phrases, wry wit, achingly perfect structure of picturesquely gilded filtered photos or info- graphics, to expediently convey meaning and elicit comprehension. It was not this that enthralled me.

It broke my heart

The piece, the digital resume was the product of substantial time and effort, commendable in itself, Gen Y being purported as being unable to sit still longer than it takes to wack a filter on a selfie. Yet it was the unbridled, wholehearted, fervent desire that charmingly seeped through every pixel, every carefully positioned graph, that rather soppily I say, broke my heart.

Exactly as They Ought

I found myself easily forgiving the gimmicky phrases that so easily choke in my throat, “substantial and sustained value”, “deconstruct the market”, “to effectuate and utilise change”, for they were used exactly as they ought.

The candidate knew the fray that they sought to enter, their qualitative and quantitative were indeed profferings to persuade, to substantiate commercial feasibility. Their ideas, charisma, oddities and quips were not awash in naiveté, but firmly rugged in the contextual delights of internal and external constraint growth analysis. And how to get shit done. Excellently. Because one needs a plan and they bloody really cared. About it all.

I saw the awe- inspiring, guilt eliciting and covetousness inducing trifecta of honourable passion, shrewd strategy and substantial intelligence collide in a rich glow of ‘crap, that’s out there’. That kind of person, that ilk of employee, that soaring wonder and freedom abounding in grit and propulsion, delighting in the work of their hands within the joyous subscription to a transcendent corporate model, mantra and mode, is out there.

The Burnt Orange Burgundy Coat

The candidate would be the one wearing a coat the colour of, somewhere between the unnerving haze of orange on a Dutch public holiday and rich burgundy wine crisp and sanguine knowing it was grown with affection. This coat amongst the stumbling mass of black that all look to the sky as they enter the subway gasping and gulping in the sunlight, as one does before diving down into the depths.  The candidate would be whistling. And they would slide down the railing.

Turning a Cynic

This Candidate, This Creative, this Inspired Sport, this Peppy Entrepreneur, this Intrepid Explorer, well, they inspired me and as, at times, there is a small argument to be made, I am a slightly self- righteous cynic, I pay homage and give kudos. Freely.

I hope to one day wear the burnt orange burgundy coat, and you too, we might as well share the thing.

a.

The (near) Graduate.

– “What are you going to do now?”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   “I was planning on going upstairs”-

At present. Dissolving into a quiet, at times, self induced mania- frump- darkness. Let’s unpack this loaded, erring on the side of hyperbole, grand old statement.

It’s that time.

The time to start thinking about looking for a job. Fine. The time to start looking for a job. The time to start thinking about applying for a job. Geez. The time to apply for a job. The time to get a job right now-, thank you very much because, the parents have sunk so much money into this little investment- to prove to them and myself but mostly them, ehh, mostly to myself, that I can do this- to bridge that void, that great big gaping chasm, where needles and drugs and worse, pity swirl in a mass of black disappointment and failure, cackling at the bottom.

The pre- void darkness cacoon has been pleasant, I even chose to weave extra layers, defensive layers. I came to the end of my bachelors and promptly rolled on to a Masters (capital letter M?). Thou shalt know a bachelor is so passé, everyone’s doing them these days. Far too eligible.

Numbered cacoon days.

The months are numbered in my cacoon. 8 months to be precise. I’m sitting in class but that’s it. I am physically here, but emotionally, mentally, dramatically, have transcended and am here with you. Raving. Instead of learning, because that’s not going to help me in my job acquisition, I’m ploughing through google using buzzwords to find my kill, but my kill is fast, and being hunted by thousands of other near mania hunters.

The militia.  

We are a militia, mercenaries . The great horde of brilliant young minds that need wealthy benefactors, the biggest of big cheeses. Swarming to where the honey is sweetest, where the gold shines to blind, where the cream floats to the top, reeking of decadence. Oh Business with your beautiful website [“See Gerald, sinking all that capital into web development instead of your stupid R&D project was worthwhile, look at all the graduates clamouring, look, it’s pool of perfect pernickety panic”].

My skills are multitasking, team work and analysis.

Let’s take our shaky skills and brimming optimism, channeling, modifying, so that we may ‘add value’ and earn gold. We’ll deconstruct the market with all our models, ideologies. Employers you must strike now, harness the ignorance, before we realise that faith, family, sleep and just humanity might just satisfy and that all that gold is just swallowed by the family’s golden retriever.

‘Marketing’, ‘internship’, ‘journalism’. They are typed out with frantic peppered insistency. Ratt-a-tatt-clickity-clack, bullets that may have my bread and butter, my high and mighty shelter, my health and well-being in their meandering trajectories. I go forth in lilting bursts, an enthusiastic one day, despondent the next, donkey, clambering towards the day at the races, for I so desperately want to win some carrots so I can grow big and strong and vindicate all the pats over the years- all the “such a promising race ahead of you”. To edify the beating heart and charismatic charms.

Whether you’re a mercenary or a big cheese. What times we live in.

– It must now be go forth and gold-

a.