QUITTING THE PAINT FACTORY: On the virtues of idleness
A resuscitated orthodoxy, so pervasive as to be nearly invisible, rules the land. Like any religion worth its salt, it shapes our world in its image, de­monizing if necessary, absorbing when possible. Thus has the great sovereign territory of what Nabokov called "unreal estate," the continent of invisible possessions from time to talent to contentment, been either infantilized, ren­dered unclean, or translated into the grammar of dollars and cents. Thus has the great wilderness of the inner life been compressed into a median strip by the demands of the "real world," which of course is anything but. Thus have we succeeded in transforming even ourselves into bipedal products, paying richly for seminars that teach us how to market the self so it may be sold to the highest bidder. Or perhaps "down the river" is the phrase.

This piece puts into eloquent words the disquiet I feel inside as I search for the next employer that will ultimately use me, abuse me, and discard me- eating away at my life for the few pennies that will keep my broadband internet going. :-)

It's a long piece, but worth the read.

(BTW, I hold that my country is neither competent nor efficient enough to be truly fascist, but we are certainly heading down that road.)