Or… Life, Waiting to Happen
On the Piccadilly platform at South Kensington, I wondered. Which work is more meaningless?
a. The (nearly) blank poster box, pictured here.
b. The person whose job it is to make a sign that says “Awaiting Posters”?
This is not to say that meaningless work is useless work. Ironing is circular. Iron, wear, wrinkle, wash. Repeat. The tao of ironing.
Even with food, I sometimes think “Why bother eating, when you are going to have to do it all again later?”
Still, I am thinking about an apple tree again. I look at this poster box, see myself in the glass. I count. The tape and the ink and the paper. The printer, the printer cartridge. The desk and its chair , the computer, and its Word program. And finally, the woman — or most likely, the woman — who sat down and turned it all on and typed it and printed it. Then handed it off, with tape, to be hung.