The Pandemic is a Portal

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I used to deliver pizzas, first by bike, and then by car. I used to lift elderly people on and off toilet seats, and
children on and off slides. I worked for a while in a warehouse putting CDs into CD sleeves, and then at another
warehouse putting boxes of shoes on shelves. I worked as a waiter at a karaoke bar, and then just long
enough as a dishwasher for a wedding caterer to develop eczema up to my elbows. The last place I worked
was at a customer service call centre, answering questions about vitamin supplements. All of them I quit
with less zeal than the last.
I used to lie down on the floor beneath my call centre cubicle, curled up on a bed of carpet so tight and grey
I developed psychosomatic asthma. When my coworkers would trip over my legs and ask what I was doing,
I’d tell them I was taking a quick power nap, and that I would be twice as productive in 20 minutes when I
awoke. “Trust me,” I assured them. “The science says—”
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Repeat after us:
I’ve been asleep for years, and it is a privilege!
I haven’t the slightest idea how to make ends meet!
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I am brought up like a horse, and receive just enough to enable me to work: [1]
Flat black shoes for gripping the earth.
Oatmeal for energy and water for high-functioning organs.
A sliver of sunlight for skin.
A single bed the height of a trough.
An expensive phone with which to call my lover.
An expensive phone with which to call my mother.
A dark, secluded place to shit.
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In one recurring dream, I can be found scouring the shelves of some labyrinthine library looking for clues as
to the sleep habits of Karl Marx. I want to know about the man’s personal relationship to work and sleep
and leisure. I want to get a sense of the consistency of his days.
Did he sleep well, or hardly at all? Did he stay up all day doing his important work, then continue at it diligently
into the night? Or did he in fact sleep lazily until noon and rise foggy-headed, writing his treatises in
short inspired bursts and only when he felt like it?
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