The Company is Dead

. . . long live the Company

Why should I let the toad work
Squat on my life?
Can't I use my wit as a pitchfork
And drive the brute off? — Philip Larkin, Toads

I can’t remember the last time I wrote about the company and all the organisational planets that orbit its sphere.

It wasn’t like I made a conscious decision to stop writing: the words ceased, as did my interest in anything remotely “corporate”.

Is it likely that I’ll resume my chagrin with (inter alia) the ecocidal proclivities of the company, or the fact that (paid) work takes the best years of our life, or that we crush our souls in the name of conformity?

I doubt it.

If nothing else, I don’t think I’m qualified to express an opinion given that I’ve all but resiled from anything connected to my former self whereby and wherein I was all in and the kitchen sink.

I realise that many people, perhaps the majority of people, don’t share my ire and that’s particularly the case with the legions of people who are parasitic the company — e.g. lawyers, accountants, consultants and change agents/gurus. I do wonder if the only reason they continue to be so heavily invested in the company is because they can’t think of something better to do with their lives?, or is it because they can’t work out a way to pay the bills absent a contract of employment?, or who else would they deliver their services to, if not the company?

As I’ve said before, if I had my time over again, more than anything else in the whole world, I wouldn’t have been seduced to believe that working for a living = life. That would have meant playing by a very different set of rules, which would have set me on a different path.

To be clear, I’m not suggesting that Mr S. would have turned out much different in that I’m still disposed to a peripaetic way of being and being at home in the world but I’d like to think that I could have lived by William Blake’s credo, as romantic as it might appear (the reality I know would have been excruciatingly hard for Blake as it would have been for me given I was raised by parents who had very Victorian sensibilities):

“I must create a system, or be enslaved by another man's. I will not reason and compare: my business is to create.”

―William Blake, Jerusalem: The Emanation of the Giant Albion

I should make it clear that I’m relieved not to be writing on company matters. To do so would mean I somehow felt it could or should play a part in our lives, which, whilst seems inescapable, doesn’t elicit of the fact that it’s not always been like this.

I realise that sounds contrary and hopelessly naive but I’d much prefer to hang out in a very different space where, if nothing else, the (corporate) language wasn’t so anaemic and everyone wasn’t so defensive when challenged on the subject of work or working for the Man.

Does this mean that I’ve pivoted?

No.

Nothing like that.

All it means is that the well is dry, and the sense that I have now is that my mission, if you can call it that, is to create — in whatever guise that shows up.

It could be writing; it could be poetry; or it could be the spoken word. It doesn’t really matter. All I’m really focused on is being genuine and not having to wear a mask or articulate a message that isn’t mine.

Am I still working?

YES.

I’m still plying my trade as a solicitor both in-house and in private practice. I don’t know how long either job will last and if the final whistle is blown, then I’m resigned to having to look for another role or going freelance as a commercial lawyer.

Then again, I might try to write for a living.

“Hold your horses, Jules.”

No, I’m serious.

I’m serious about wanting to write in a serious and deliberate way.

Yes, yes, yes: it’s all so effing boring, me keep bleating on about this but I’ve this sense that my muse might be pressed into action when she realises that there is a seriounessness to my work and I’m not twiddling all the social media (“SM”) knobs under the sun in the hope of . . .well, err . . ., I . . ., I don’t know.

Do I enjoy SM? Not really. It’s meh, OK-ish but then again, I could just as easily leave it all behind and spend my time reading, writing and walking.

I suppose what all this amounts to is the luxury of time. As obvious as it sounds: I’m still here and I’m well enough to do something. And that’s a blessing — to me at least. (I still have my Black Dog days where I question this life but something always pulls me back in the hope, or I’d like to think that this is what’s in play, that I’ve one last hurrah to navigate and/or explore and/or develop.)

If there’s a rider to this post (typical lawyer . . .) it’s that I’m not saying I’ll never write again on organisational matters but I think the longer I’m out of that space — psychically and otherwise — the less likely it is I’ll be inclined to comment on all those well-worn areas be that culture, creating work that matters (an oxymoron) or being the best version of yourself (it’s sad if you think the company environs is the place for that to manifest).

I’ll sign off for now with a short reading from the first chapter of Moby Dick — just because I love it.

CHAPTER 1. Loomings

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

Thanks for reading and/or listening.

Blessings,

Julian