I was watching a show on Netflix the other night. It was set in the middle east in the 50s and 60s. I noticed that they would have bread and butter and a glass of water for a meal (or a snack). Simpler times.
In my parents day, spaghetti used to seem exotic.
Imagine 100 years ago how much simpler life was, at least in terms of food on the table, in the pantry and fridge. I can’t even go out for coffee now, it is so hard to order.
No one is immune. Time comes in, like the tide and there you are, a rock on the beach, getting a little more submerged with every wave. No one is immune to change. Resistance is futile. Change is constant. You can’t choose to keep your world view. There is only one side, there is only one team - Team Change and that team has picked you, picked you apparently to sit on the bench, riddin pine. But you’re wearing the jersey now at least. You’re on the team whether you like it or not. You are going to celebrate the victories and suffer the losses.
In Shute Harbour for a week or more, I lived in a borrowed ’66 Volkswagon Kombi. My friends on South Mole wanted to save the parking fee as they finished up just a couple more weeks of work. I’d had enough of pot-washing and the vertical promotion to table-bussing, which didn’t work out so well so I went back to the kitchen. I had a few bucks in my pocket again, time to continue my suffering.
All the travel I did was somewhat about suffering. It was controlled hardship. It was managed distress and manipulated adversity. I was never more than a change of clothes away from total respectability. But I was out there living on the edge, not really part of the big game. Daydreaming pine jockey, deep on the bench, low on the roster.