The Writer's Notebook

By Charles Bivona

I’m just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round,
I really love to watch them roll. -John Lennon

I’m so fucking tired of being silent.

It’s anxiety and fear. Yes! I admit it. Fuck! They shut me up. They fucking intimidated me. Can you believe that? My father toughened me up for years, and when the moment came to defend myself, I flinched. I choked.

In my defense, I think I was in shock. I mean, do you wake up on any given day and expect to have your civil rights violated?

So, yes, when my boss told me I had better stop blogging, right now “for the sake of your career, Tom,” I was speechless.

I mean, can you imagine the fucking nerve of this cunt? I’m stuck at this dead end job, surviving on slave wages—disgraceful fucking wages, you uppity plantation owners!

I worked in a factory, right. It doesn’t matter what kind of factory. All factories are the same. You do repetitious, bullshit work for years and years and years.

At first, I enjoyed the work. I won’t lie. I learned a lot about myself. I learned how my mind works. I learned to control it, to master it and use it creatively.

And since mass producing for the future of American office work—the work of all our factories—was not my dream come true, I started this blog.

People loved my blog. Suddenly, I had fans. I was getting fan mail! Imagine! I was so pumped. I started writing more and more and more.

Then, my boss—this burnout hack with an Aussie accent—threatens my livelihood.

Stop blogging or you’re fired, Tom. She was blunt. It was my fault, really.

See, I told one of my subordinates that I’d started a blog. I shouldn’t have, but I was excited: I was getting email from real poets and writers! They were congratulating me. So, one day I let it slip.

I’m becoming a notable blogger. Isn’t that insane?

Within a month, the entire factory was reading me. I was suddenly very popular with my subordinates. They liked that I had a human side. They liked that I had flaws. A few of them, some of the employees I managed—I was a manager—they started blogging, too. And strangely, they suddenly worked very hard for me. They didn’t want to let me down, they said.

I thought it was a cool office fad and got back to work. Deadlines for production were coming up fast, and, as usual, we were way behind. My boss was looking more haggard by the day. My fellow managers were as stressed as I was. It was dysfunctional.

But, see, there were these two fucking CFOs, right. They call all the shots because they raise all the money for the factory—indirectly. Mostly they just con the people who supply the raw materials for the factory.

Do I need to explain this further? I mean, it’s not rocket science. We all know the scam. The factories promise to do more than they possibly can with the raw materials provided, and then they cut corners, work at an impossible pace, etc. etc.

The system breaks down early in the process, so the managers—people like me—we bullshit our subordinates while the CFOs bullshit the suppliers, play on their emotions, etc. That Grand Old American Business style. Ultimately, we produce shitty products.

And since robbing people for the factory is what keeps the factory going, image image image is everything. The CFOs like to make sure the factory—from the outside—looks just fucking dandy at all goddamn times.

Do you understand, Thomas? No problems with this factory. Send us your raw materials, and if we fuck them up—remember, always remember, you uneducated cattle, it was you–the suppliers–that mishandled these materials somehow.

It is never the factories fault if a project fails. It is the suppliers problem. Period. The suppliers and/or the materials are irresponsible, inept. Not us! We just run the factory!

This is called a deflection tactic. Working as a manger at the factory taught me this well. A lot of projects fail; managers have a high turnover rate.

But that’s straying from the point. Which is, I chose to stop writing.

Stop blogging or your fired, Tom. And I don’t believe in free speech. So, don’t even start.

I chose my $1,250/month paycheck over my blog, over my poetry, over my expression, and over my rights. In the interest of economic survival, I fell silent.

And then my best friend died.

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(Source: zazzle.com)