PUBLICITY FOR PROGRESS: take a pause... and relax... and think...

Il discorso dello schiavo

"Work is the refuge of people who have nothing better to do."
—Oscar Wilde

"It was true that I didn't have much ambition, but there ought to be a place for people without ambition, I mean a better place than the one usually reserved. How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?"
—Charles Bukowski, Factotum, Black Sparrow Press, 1975

"people not addicted to work are noble.
you must not strive to be something you are not;
just as you are, you are fine..."
- Beop Jeong, "learn from a flower"

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anti-work
http://www.whywork.org/about/faq/antiwork.html
http://infoshop.org/page/Labor
http://cultronix.eserver.org/martz/

;-D
maybe there is something else?
maybe you can live in another way?
are you sure that you are not conditioned by a propaganda that you can't live without working?
are you sure that you don't have any choice?
are you sure that you are happy?
are you working for yourself?
there is nothing bad in working if you enjoy it! if you can realize yourself in it. but rember you are not what is written on your business card!
ahahah

farewell to hongkong. latcho drom (have a good trip in rom language)

"the hat you wear, represents my culture. it's nice on you" a man stop kandido in the street.
"i'm from pakistan. where are you from?"

kandido stretches his arm and point a finger along the road:"there."

"no. i ment where is your house?"

"where is my house?"
kandido stop. "i don't know man, where is my house? i had a house in china. one in india. few in italy...
i'm like a sailor. in any country a house and possibly a woman.
i'm tattooed like a sailor. but i travel by land. like a rom. a gypsy, a gitan, a bohemian, a halab, a tsigane."
and he laughs widely.
a poetry of neruda comes to his mind:
"(Amo el amor de los marineros
que besan y se van.
Dejan una promesa.
No vuelven nunca más.

En cada puerto una mujer espera:
los marineros besan y se van.

Una noche se acuestan con la muerte
en el lecho del mar)."

the memories run fast and he find himself as a kid with his mother looking at the arm of a sailor with Popeye the sailor man. the drawing could move on the skin. alive.

some people need to travel. some people like the biblical Cain is nomadic. they move for green grass, money, women, learning, seeing...
the man looks deeply kandido in the eyes. his eyes are blue. a pakistan with afagnan origins.
"i hope you will find what you are looking for" and with the hand he touch his chest in correspondence of the heart.
kandido does the same, smiles and continues walking...
the light of hk are all around him. gucci, massages, rolex, luis vitton... people run with shopping bags in their arms.

"what am i looking for?"
"nothing" he mumbles... and smiles. the Great Beautiful Nothingness. it is his motto when people asks him what he does. "i don't do, i am!"
maybe it is the Buddhist nothing: the emptiness. maybe. he doesn't know. he doesn't care to give it a name a concept.
looking for looking. no any plan. no any goal.
maybe he's just lazy.
kandido rise the nose in the air and starts sniffing the air.
"scent of women... and food somewhere..."
he smiles and keep on walking towards some restaurants...
the crowd continue their quest for the ultimate good. indifferent.
kandido looks at them, at their eyes, at their face, at their dress...
and he continues walking...