It seems not to matter just how much I have previously given myself to the study of Time; I still find myself thrown into disarray at the temporality of situations which had once given themselves the hue of longevity. Working for hourly wages has its own way of making employment feel permanent. As a worker, one becomes familiar with a certain environment, or work dynamic. The novelty of work situations gives way to the contemptuous breath of familiarity. And the life of work begins to feel tedious. Longevity here is not too far from the boredom of the daily grind, doing the same thing, over and over again, as a practice, as a way of perfecting one's craft, as a means of keeping one's head above the deluge of worldly responsibilities.
And yet, job security, sought at an hourly price, gives us only an illusion of permanence. In the competition for such security, the hierarchy of seekers plays out its game of the upwardly mobile and the peons of menial tasks. The hours pass, events transpire, actions are performed, some of these novel, some repetitious. The familiarity becomes a kind of comfortableness with the work at hand. Content to do the job prescribed for the moment, one gets lost in one's profession, managing the small-scale accomplishments that support the broader tasks. Time passes easily if one has enough energy for the task, slowly and gratingly if one is not well-rested or well-nourished.
Time announces itself at the key moments: the alarm clock, the beginning of the commute, of the work day, the various breaks for rest or meals, the end of the work day, payday, the beginning of the workweek, humpday, the beginning of the weekend. But other than these, which are regularly fixed, Time appears as a realization of exasperation. "It's such a long day!", says the man who cannot fix his mind in his work, or is fatigued by the extent of his labors. In fact, the day is no longer or shorter than any other, but the man cannot in his fatigue grasp this. His feelings mask the regularity of time, prolong its seconds, minutes, and hours, prevent his mind from overcoming the regularity of the passing of his life unto death.
And toward the man who arrives late for work, the masters of fate become disgruntled and soured. They cannot long forbear the tardy man unannounced, that unprofessional man whose cares allow time to pass unproductively. Such a slight is a secular sin, a sin against the religious feelings of the company's core values. Even accidentally, it will be noted as at least venial.
A busy professional will not even have time for idle chatter. His work is his religion, and the gods of monetary advancement jealously guard against those who fail to give their full attention to the tasks at hand. A man works for money, and so must earn the right to that money by showing his dedication and professionalism, his care for the profession.
And yet, for all this, little slips in his focus can degrade him in the eyes of his employers. If he is not as fast as the others, his employment threatens to become a burden to the company.
Within the secular world, professionalism is the one true religion.
And yet, job security, sought at an hourly price, gives us only an illusion of permanence. In the competition for such security, the hierarchy of seekers plays out its game of the upwardly mobile and the peons of menial tasks. The hours pass, events transpire, actions are performed, some of these novel, some repetitious. The familiarity becomes a kind of comfortableness with the work at hand. Content to do the job prescribed for the moment, one gets lost in one's profession, managing the small-scale accomplishments that support the broader tasks. Time passes easily if one has enough energy for the task, slowly and gratingly if one is not well-rested or well-nourished.
Time announces itself at the key moments: the alarm clock, the beginning of the commute, of the work day, the various breaks for rest or meals, the end of the work day, payday, the beginning of the workweek, humpday, the beginning of the weekend. But other than these, which are regularly fixed, Time appears as a realization of exasperation. "It's such a long day!", says the man who cannot fix his mind in his work, or is fatigued by the extent of his labors. In fact, the day is no longer or shorter than any other, but the man cannot in his fatigue grasp this. His feelings mask the regularity of time, prolong its seconds, minutes, and hours, prevent his mind from overcoming the regularity of the passing of his life unto death.
And toward the man who arrives late for work, the masters of fate become disgruntled and soured. They cannot long forbear the tardy man unannounced, that unprofessional man whose cares allow time to pass unproductively. Such a slight is a secular sin, a sin against the religious feelings of the company's core values. Even accidentally, it will be noted as at least venial.
A busy professional will not even have time for idle chatter. His work is his religion, and the gods of monetary advancement jealously guard against those who fail to give their full attention to the tasks at hand. A man works for money, and so must earn the right to that money by showing his dedication and professionalism, his care for the profession.
And yet, for all this, little slips in his focus can degrade him in the eyes of his employers. If he is not as fast as the others, his employment threatens to become a burden to the company.
Within the secular world, professionalism is the one true religion.
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