Proximity to Power
I saw Donald Trump leave this morning from Andrews AFB. The helicopters came in while I was running on the track, and then several minutes later, Air Force One took to the skies. It was no surprise, uneventful, boring really… The media makes everything look so glamorous when in reality, it’s a rather dry affair. My proximity to power is a strange sort of conundrum. I go to Georgetown University, yet I choose to stay far from campus. The White House is just a few miles away, yet I’d never bother to work there. I really don’t care to do much of anything nowadays but write. Climbing the corporate ladder, gaining promotions, and seizing opportunities are simply useless to me. They mean nothing, and in truth, are silly from my vantage point.
I look upon working a job as a human might a squirrel collecting nuts and berries. Yes, it must be done, but not with too much haste or any real degree of pleasure. The odd part about this is that in corporate America, they want you to “enjoy” the process of collecting such trivial edibles. No, I do not enjoy it. I do not enjoy helping the greediest among us become ever more empowered in their endless quest to consume. Buy more houses, more couches, more cars; what use is this? It is a racket, a status game, a pillaging by means of legal theft from the labor class.
I’d take no pleasure in being the head honcho, the CEO, CTO, CMO, or otherwise. These titles do not elevate me, but only increase my burdens. I’ve been forced to lead before, and it’s always a nightmare of management. People wining, crying, conniving, jockeying for position. I do not have the mental bandwidth to deal with such chaos, such nonsense. Then there’s the social stuff; phone calls, dinner parties, soirees… of what use are these happenings to me?
I have never gone to a party that I did not immediately want to leave. Whether those be birthdays, holiday parties, christmas dinners, or likewise. Yes, oh yes, I do sound like such a bore. The “difficult” artist, the temperamental inimical writer. Why is it that something is wrong with me because I’d rather be alone in my hovel? Monks get nothing but praise for it, but I? Oh, a “wrongdoer,” a “snob,” a “oh, he’s so uppity.” I’ve heard them all, “he’s just too good for us,” or “oh, he doesn’t hang out with us peasants.” All false projections, all realities of the insecure and avaricious. The people of Washington, D.C., are always after something. Always trying to “get” something out of someone. Always talking, always chattering about nothing, gossiping behind your back and their own. How childish they are, how impish and immature. Short-sighted, hypervigilant, paranoid, and worst of all, aggressive. They are so aggressive, these city people, so nasty and deceitful. They turn everything into an opportunity for gain. Like shareholders, they try to measure your worth through dollars and cents, an increase in yield, or a potential decrease. So quickly they flee when you inform them that you’re not at all wealthy. It is a useful trick really, simply tell them that you’re struggling and you’ll never see them again. They’ll vanish like smoke, like morning mist, these people, these sycophants and social climbers.
I have nothing but contempt for the man who willingly lives in the city. It is why I struggle quietly to move back to New Mexico. A place of space and fresh air. Where one can think without hearing about last week’s murder. The random violence, the teens in the street, the national guard on the prowl. Of whom wants to live like this?
Not I, I’m going to leave. If only I could save up enough money, but that is another matter entirely.
Hello! We’re D.J. Hoskins
We are Davena and Jason Hoskins, co-authors of 40+ books and siblings who write under the pseudonym D.J. Hoskins. Three years apart and in our twenties, we have been fascinated by stories from a young age. Davena is a student attending Princeton University, and Jason attends Georgetown University.
