The Pouch Should Make a Comeback
and Social Insecurity
I am a third of the way finished with my local art association residency. I have accomplished much, too much, and now I want a sand beach until early afternoon, then a nap by an open window, happy hour on the veranda and at sunset, a promenade down the main cobblestone street of the sleepy harbor village. The volunteer work is work—grant writing, furniture moving, press releases, sweeping, mopping, friendlifying guests (the latter way too few and far between in depth of winter)… Work without reward. Work for noodles of satori. You remember the time when we worked for free, from kindegarten through college, when our parents (school taxes) and our selves (high interest loans from banks) actually paid the institution to let us work gratis. Kinda crazy to think about, sending a five-year-old off to obey commands, day after day, for free, for the next 20 years. Wear them down to obedient workers. Henry Ford assimilation. And nothing special really, just mopping the floor of the same abstractions as any other kid in the classroom. “These are letters and numbers.” “This is time.” “Color between the lines” “Focus all your attention inside, not inside/outside.” “Here is Vincent van Gogh who frequented brothels and rotted with syphilis, how beautiful the flowers.”
I believe that working for free in my last 25 years will complete the circle of social serfdom, to be born again into some other little soul kicking a stone down the street on his way to elementary school. Work is work. Art is work. Working children, teens and adult artists don’t get paid. The latter missed the middle years income accumulation (making good on the promise of educational indentured servitude) when the grand human-made abstraction of money could turn itself miraculously into food, shelter and fuel.
When I was 10, my mother handed me a Social Security card. I signed it: Ronnie J Throop in my best upside-down, left-handed penmanship. Today I get my future statement in the mail once a year, sent to “Ronnie J Throop”. It says that after age 62, I should expect $332.00 a month until I die. Well, at least that eliminates food insecurity. Last month I counted every miracle penny that got turned into nutritious calories to keep my weight steady. 200 bucks a month. That leaves $132.00 per month for shelter, fuel and everything else under the sun. I am most fortunate that Rose is sensitive, kind and steamingly good-looking. Without my obedient worker, I could never afford to pay my own way in life, let alone twenty minutes in some syphilitic city brothel.
Here are some free paintings made over the last couple weeks. Thanks for the visit!
Ronnie J Throop
Smile—that folks like you even exist in this world. 🥰💚