the hardest rocks in the world
The past two days of the legit job have been mentally taxing, physically brutal and emotionally straining. It's all shoveling, all day and my body is feeling every single swing of the shovel as I sit here on the couch. In the quieter moments before I picked up my computer, I could feel my body still trying to go through the process of shoveling without actually moving. I can feel the resistance as I jab the blade of the shovel into the rock and then retract the blade, now full of rock and ten times heavier. I can feel my back and stomach muscles work in tandem to balance the load as I swing it around and hurtle it across the landscaping. Then my body twists back around and takes another jab. It's a ghostly reflex action and it's making it hard to just sit here and indulge in my one true passion - writing.
I got my first paycheck on Friday and the first thing I noticed was that the feds took a lot of my money. What irks me about paying the taxes isn't that it might go to some woman living on welfare or to some artist that is using the money to take nude photos of kids, but that it might be given to someone like Dick Cheney or someone just like him, in some government contract that is for better weapons or spyware which I won't be able to own, use or see myself. A welfare oompa loompa is tangible and so I know the money is at least being used philanthropic. Dick gets my cash and he builds a huge house in Wyoming. My only peace comes in the knowledge that there is someone shoveling rocks at Dick's house and is being paid with my tax money. That makes me feel a bit better, but not really.
I was none to happy about the huge chunk of change that I had to dish out to the feds, so I talked to my boss and now I work subcontract and I get all my money under the table, no taxes. Period. I'm not a fan of taxation without representation and a state senator isn't representation in my opinion.
For the past ten years, this has been the way it is with me - I'm an entertainer and that means I only work somewhere one night, one week and usually in a different state each time, which is way too much paperwork, so I get paid as an independent contractor. Comedy pays in a lump sum and it's up to me to pay the taxes on it four different times over the fiscal year. Entertainer's taxes are a bit higher than the average working stiff coming in at around forty percent of their income. Thankfully, the feds have found it in their hearts to allow deductions for such things as rent, cell phones, laundry, travel, food, condoms, golf clubs, Powerbooks and a whole lot of other things that the average citizen can't claim. So the forty percent that was once about to crush you has suddenly dwindled down to less than five percent or even to the point where the feds owe YOU money. I confess, the first time I did my own taxes and saw that I was due back a ton of money, I flipped. It would seem that the government meant to pay me to be a comic. BRILLIANT!
The next few years I had a tax lawyer prepare my taxes and he said to fudge the numbers to show so that I wouldn't get back that much and the feds wouldn't get wise. So this I've done for the past nine years and will continue to do until something better comes along.
You're allowed to only claim a loss in any business for five years before the feds want you to shut down the cash sink hole and do something else with your life that is more prosperous. Of course, this flies in the face of that whole; life, liberty, and blah, blah, blah. But the feds are "feds" because they want as much of your money as they can get and they have become feds to get it from you, in one way or another. They are slick little hustlers and they know the legal way to rape you. That's why they're there. Then they create laws to protect themselves from you and to keep you inline and fearful of them. They could care less about your life, liberty and the rest of that stuff. Just give them theirs and you'll be allowed to live... As long as you pay them for the right.
I don't pay taxes. I file every year, but I have to fudge the numbers to show a balance that favors me but nothing more than ten bucks. I don't ask for a return. I don't believe that I should get anything back. This is the same stubborn sentiment that I have about my native American heritage. I don't want that money from the feds in that regard either. When I did qualify for welfare, unemployment and other services, I balked at those offers too. Fuck the feds. I won't take money from them because I know that some stiff is getting it in the ass on his paycheck so they can pay me. He can't make rent, so I can get a little free cash... I would rather shovel rocks all day and not have to pay taxes instead. There is no guilt in earning a living in an ethical way. How politicians sleep is beyond me.
So I am laboring under the hot sun, shoveling rocks. 21 hours in two days. No lunch. No breaks. After work, I sleep so soundly that an earthquake would only feel as if my cradle was being gently rocked. It would only deepen my already incredible passionate slumber. The sun is still hot in my skin long after I have crawled into the cool shower. I take such a beating that I have nearly passed out twice during my drive home. I barely have enough energy to eat, write my beloved postings, or answer emails from friends and readers, but I am trying.
This work has a purpose for me and at the end of the 11 weeks, I shall be rewarded in many ways. One I should be ahead financially so I can walk into next spring without too much worry. Of course, this is only if I don't spend any of the money during this 11 week period, and that will be hard to do with that beautiful AGV dragon helmet calling to me every night. Then there is the BMW FS650 sitting just down the street that wants me to own her and ride her. And then there is the shiny little pistola that wants to live with me at the Perch. I hear its call late at night. What is a crippled worn down man to do?
The greatest reward from the work is really the labor itself. I love the dirt and the sky and the water and I love working with it to create things. It takes me back to the better days of the Ponderosa when things were much like this, but more isolated and personal. At end of the 11 weeks, I travel for three months and then I hope to seek out another labor intensive home to continue my Shaker ways.
Focus. Discipline. Adapt. Peace.
Keep your mind on the job and pay attention to the details so you can get the work done right. Thus working wisely and making it less "work" and more "life". (did you know that before the introduction of slavery, there was no such thing as a chore or work?) Train your mind to make it through and you'll discover a greatness that you didn't know existed inside you. This is good advice... Coming from someone that will probably see some jail time for his tax issues. Years in a federal prison where there are no AGV helmets, BMW's or shiny little pistolas, fields of flowers, glorious sunsets or chocolate cake, that would be some kind of challenge. But until that day that they decide to come for me, I shall be digging these rocks, fussing about my paycheck and trying to discipline myself to accept it all. Digging rocks all day and sleeping like one, all night.
I got my first paycheck on Friday and the first thing I noticed was that the feds took a lot of my money. What irks me about paying the taxes isn't that it might go to some woman living on welfare or to some artist that is using the money to take nude photos of kids, but that it might be given to someone like Dick Cheney or someone just like him, in some government contract that is for better weapons or spyware which I won't be able to own, use or see myself. A welfare oompa loompa is tangible and so I know the money is at least being used philanthropic. Dick gets my cash and he builds a huge house in Wyoming. My only peace comes in the knowledge that there is someone shoveling rocks at Dick's house and is being paid with my tax money. That makes me feel a bit better, but not really.
I was none to happy about the huge chunk of change that I had to dish out to the feds, so I talked to my boss and now I work subcontract and I get all my money under the table, no taxes. Period. I'm not a fan of taxation without representation and a state senator isn't representation in my opinion.
For the past ten years, this has been the way it is with me - I'm an entertainer and that means I only work somewhere one night, one week and usually in a different state each time, which is way too much paperwork, so I get paid as an independent contractor. Comedy pays in a lump sum and it's up to me to pay the taxes on it four different times over the fiscal year. Entertainer's taxes are a bit higher than the average working stiff coming in at around forty percent of their income. Thankfully, the feds have found it in their hearts to allow deductions for such things as rent, cell phones, laundry, travel, food, condoms, golf clubs, Powerbooks and a whole lot of other things that the average citizen can't claim. So the forty percent that was once about to crush you has suddenly dwindled down to less than five percent or even to the point where the feds owe YOU money. I confess, the first time I did my own taxes and saw that I was due back a ton of money, I flipped. It would seem that the government meant to pay me to be a comic. BRILLIANT!
The next few years I had a tax lawyer prepare my taxes and he said to fudge the numbers to show so that I wouldn't get back that much and the feds wouldn't get wise. So this I've done for the past nine years and will continue to do until something better comes along.
You're allowed to only claim a loss in any business for five years before the feds want you to shut down the cash sink hole and do something else with your life that is more prosperous. Of course, this flies in the face of that whole; life, liberty, and blah, blah, blah. But the feds are "feds" because they want as much of your money as they can get and they have become feds to get it from you, in one way or another. They are slick little hustlers and they know the legal way to rape you. That's why they're there. Then they create laws to protect themselves from you and to keep you inline and fearful of them. They could care less about your life, liberty and the rest of that stuff. Just give them theirs and you'll be allowed to live... As long as you pay them for the right.
I don't pay taxes. I file every year, but I have to fudge the numbers to show a balance that favors me but nothing more than ten bucks. I don't ask for a return. I don't believe that I should get anything back. This is the same stubborn sentiment that I have about my native American heritage. I don't want that money from the feds in that regard either. When I did qualify for welfare, unemployment and other services, I balked at those offers too. Fuck the feds. I won't take money from them because I know that some stiff is getting it in the ass on his paycheck so they can pay me. He can't make rent, so I can get a little free cash... I would rather shovel rocks all day and not have to pay taxes instead. There is no guilt in earning a living in an ethical way. How politicians sleep is beyond me.
So I am laboring under the hot sun, shoveling rocks. 21 hours in two days. No lunch. No breaks. After work, I sleep so soundly that an earthquake would only feel as if my cradle was being gently rocked. It would only deepen my already incredible passionate slumber. The sun is still hot in my skin long after I have crawled into the cool shower. I take such a beating that I have nearly passed out twice during my drive home. I barely have enough energy to eat, write my beloved postings, or answer emails from friends and readers, but I am trying.
This work has a purpose for me and at the end of the 11 weeks, I shall be rewarded in many ways. One I should be ahead financially so I can walk into next spring without too much worry. Of course, this is only if I don't spend any of the money during this 11 week period, and that will be hard to do with that beautiful AGV dragon helmet calling to me every night. Then there is the BMW FS650 sitting just down the street that wants me to own her and ride her. And then there is the shiny little pistola that wants to live with me at the Perch. I hear its call late at night. What is a crippled worn down man to do?
The greatest reward from the work is really the labor itself. I love the dirt and the sky and the water and I love working with it to create things. It takes me back to the better days of the Ponderosa when things were much like this, but more isolated and personal. At end of the 11 weeks, I travel for three months and then I hope to seek out another labor intensive home to continue my Shaker ways.
Focus. Discipline. Adapt. Peace.
Keep your mind on the job and pay attention to the details so you can get the work done right. Thus working wisely and making it less "work" and more "life". (did you know that before the introduction of slavery, there was no such thing as a chore or work?) Train your mind to make it through and you'll discover a greatness that you didn't know existed inside you. This is good advice... Coming from someone that will probably see some jail time for his tax issues. Years in a federal prison where there are no AGV helmets, BMW's or shiny little pistolas, fields of flowers, glorious sunsets or chocolate cake, that would be some kind of challenge. But until that day that they decide to come for me, I shall be digging these rocks, fussing about my paycheck and trying to discipline myself to accept it all. Digging rocks all day and sleeping like one, all night.
posted by Daniel Loomis | 10:26 PM
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