"I will figure something out."

My floor this morning---the aftermath of Collage Making.
Standing on my desk is the black board I started (& posted) for the collaboration yesterday.

I'm leaving my collage papers out because I'm bringing home the board Em prepared for Ass't Man. AM hadn't take home the board before he left for vacation all this week, so I'm going to--it'll give me something to work on inside this week--not only is it going to be hot, but it's smoky again too.

I am GRATEFUL that bink & Maura gave me a standing, rolling air conditioner, above, right, when they got a new system.
It hasn't been very hot this summer, so far, but there've been times you don't want to open the windows for bad air quality.

Breathing. It’s good.

From a donated book about Workplace Health:

Workplace Health

"I will figure something out."
That's what E.D. (executive director) texted me this morning. I had written to him on Saturday asking if there was any food at the warehouse.

The Society that runs the thrift store used to run a massive food bank in our warehouse to distribute to food shelves.
We used to get free groceries at the store, weekly.
Some of it was horrid to me--FUD-brand hot dogs, etc.--but we often got freshies too--veg and fruit.

FUD is a real brand of cheap meats and other stuff. I googled it, and they say FUD stands for "Fine Unique Delicious".
Uh-huh.

Long story, big nonprofit interests pushed little nonprofits like The Society out of food redistribution--("nonprofit" does not mean nice). The food bank operation has dwindled, and we thrift store workers rarely get food anymore. . . except free Big Box bakery items full of preservatives, which some volunteers pick up weekly for us to give away at the store. I don't eat it.

However, the food operation still exists, though greatly diminished, and I was asking if we could get good, I told E/D, because one of my coworkers told me on Saturday they didn't have any groceries until payday this Thursday–– did I know of a food shelf open on Sunday because they work weekdays and don't have a car so can't get to a food shelf in time?

I wrote to E.D.:

"If there's any food in the warehouse, on Monday could you send some over for everybody, so no names are named?
I offered to buy Coworker groceries, but they refused--said they had spaghetti to get them through. You know how people don't like to be beholden. I found some canned soup and peanut butter and bread for them in our break room."

I'm curious what E.D. will figure out and what will show up at work today.

Choice Is Wealth

As I said, "nonprofit" doesn't mean nice.
The Society's mission is to lift people out of poverty, but they don't do that for their workers.
Some have other sources of income--
Ass't Man is married to a teacher; I have money from dead relatives; Helen sells vintage clothes on the side; older workers start drawing their social security at 62; some live in government-assisted housing--
otherwise--or also--well, they're living on the edge, like Coworker who ran out of food.

Some don't qualify, or don't know how to apply, or don't want to receive government assistance.

Mr Furniture doesn't want to be on any government lists. He lives on boiled eggs until payday, sometimes. This is freedom. COSTLY freedom, but real---he chooses.
And he's an artist.
There's wealth!
Though this may sound romantic, in some ways it's true what Isak Dinesen wrote in Babette's Feast:

“A great artist is never poor.
We have something of which other people know nothing.”

Mr Furniture means it, and lives it, and thereby proves it isn't just a romance.
And you don't have to be a "great" artist, just a person who somehow transforms things or words or images. The fairy tale of spinning gold out of straw...

Another coworker lost their apartment and is living in a van. I lent them money for a down payment on an apartment that they're moving into today, I think.
I said they didn't have to pay it back, but they insisted they would.
"When you can," I said. "After you catch up. No hurry."

I don't care if they never pay it back. They have nothing. Even the van they're staying in is not theirs.

I chose not to pursue a middle-class life.
Because I didn't want it.
I wanted THRIFT LIFE.
To do stuff like cut up magazines and glue them in new pictures, and to play with dolls and bears, and read and write and [something like] pray, and to, most of all, to have time to think about things.
Vacationing in Belize--all that entails--was the opposite of what I wanted.
I tell myself to remember I have made these choices all along, when the bill comes due.

The best investment I could make, I think, is to FINALLY do what I always say I want to do and write something besides blog posts.
Why don't I?
Fear? Laziness? Or is it merely an illusion--a romantic idea--that I even want to do that? No, I don't think it's an illusion--when I do it, I love it. But yeah, there's some barrier...

Thrift Life is a gamble.
I trust I will figure something out.