Supine Rebellion

My position has become more precarious now that the other participant remains at the task location. Should his negligence draw undue attention to our unauthorized occupancy, the committee may expel us both. Wary of attracting scrutiny by collecting funds at the alternate site while someone else clearly resides there, I find myself compelled to return to the original location today—a first in quite some time. I hope to complete the task and gather sufficient resources for medication and sustenance afterward.

The path forward eludes me. Another city seems foolish after my recent ill-conceived departure. Evidence of my transgressions here multiplies, while already scarce resources dwindle. The library, and nearby, the site of my nightly ritual—where I offer my body to the earth and mind to the sky—anchors me. I am suspended in time and space until winter arrives. The harsh climate, more forbidding than the inhabitants I avoid, may then force my exodus. How does he manage, that kind man with the clownish hair, night after night?

I allowed that other fellow to exit through the concealed passage. My motives escape me. He expressed a desire to leave, abandoning his beer bottle and detritus on the floor. I should have tidied up; it imperils my situation. I am reluctant to relocate to another city—we are well-situated here. Yet, circumstances compel! Then there was the aggressive individual they entrusted with a key. He vanished. I suspect the committee will not permit participants to linger indefinitely, even if the situation were not deteriorating. It is akin to a scriptless sound stage where no one ever calls "cut".

The ride back for more sleep, for more hope. Task, collect, transact and return. It’s starting to get cold. The window of opportunity is narrowing for staying in this region, expecting to sit at a collaborator’s table. Time to get busier and riskier. However, I need sleep, and there's never enough time in the day. What alternatives are there? Could I be cut out for something else? I don’t see it. I despair and supplication to the Universe, the Taskmaster, the Swift-Footed Trickster for a break. I get so close to the meager sum I need, only to have to restart at zero. It was so much easier not so long ago.

Waiting in line for the bus, indiscreet eyes seem to me hostile when my pockets are empty. I’m too tired and old now to hop from one location of the task to the next. I must find the right location to maximize my gains. The most generous of my colleagues, fellow-task-participants, once found are only half the goal. I need a stroke of luck in the market to propel me to the higher echelons. It has to happen eventually – please.

A new task location, somewhere I’ve never been, often promises unexpected generosity. Trying one, I received a modest sum of cash, along with a sumptuous meal after the noon task. Someone awakens me from my slumber in between tasks and informs me the afternoon task will begin shortly. The universal protocol at these task locations is to commence the task after hearing the loudly announced ‘call to task’, so I wonder why this individual feels the need to inform me of an upcoming announcement.

I must get ready for the task? Once the task starts, I’ll get up and do it. It’s as simple as that. He insists more forcefully that I must not continue to lie down because the task will begin in a few minutes. I counter-insist I will get up once the appointed time arrives. There is no reason to forsake my recumbent state any sooner. An altercation ensues, resulting in my being told to leave exactly four minutes before the task is announced.

Did this occur because I was a newcomer? Did my distribution of dubious religio-spiritual messages outside the task location have something to do with this unprecedented application of standard procedure? The embrace of the mundane, it turns out, may be my only reliable sanctuary.



Having transacted wisely and profitably at the market by the shore, and immediately following it up with another successful trip to the market nestled among the rolling hills, I will soon have enough to return north, I think I will, despite the air temperature starting to chill. The libraries up north are incomparable, and I can more easily attract money to myself there. Here, I must rely on sheer numbers of people making small contributions. I end up collecting around the same amount daily, but up north I can finish the task faster and get on with my pursuits.

I encounter many individuals who either do not know or who pretend not to know the meaning of the word "change," so lately I've taken to simply asking for a specific amount. Perhaps some do not give because they think I'm expecting a large contribution, so it's better to let everyone know that I'm fine with even a tiny sum.

The earnings I've accumulated so far will not be risked. Instead, I'll start over from the beginning today, tasking and generating a base capital that can, hopefully, be increased at the markets later tonight and tomorrow. For now, I need to find a cafe other than the one I'm currently in to claim my breakfast.



Given the challenges of sleeping outdoors in chilling weather and in brightly lit, crowded subway cars, I cherish the opportunity to visit the shoreline market. Even when transportation costs leave little for business transactions, I find solace here. Tonight, however, I have enough not only to generate a respectable profit—should I deal shrewdly with the right individuals of the market —but also potentially to reach a collaborator's table. I'm already halfway there.

Distributing religio-spiritual messages has an advantage over perfume distribution: it's constitutionally protected free speech. While a task location manager might reasonably ask me to refrain from offering perfume for donations outside their premises, they cannot prohibit the distribution of these messages. Even if the content were highly objectionable—which it is not—no one can prevent me from exercising this right.



In contrast to the alpine market, the one nestled among the rolling hills does not offer vouchers with the bus ticket. Nevertheless, it has proven more profitable despite this difference. It may be time to put my growing business acumen to the test there once again.

A soft breeze pushes leaves along the neatly manicured lawn of another library not far from where I'll finally seek out the aid of those responsible. Before, I only sought the assistance of the rank and file. The deadline is approaching fast for my final effort to collect funds. After twenty days I'll just ask for food. Then, there will be nothing left to do other than to sit on the sidewalk and just fade away. Not so bad a fate when you consider all it takes to perform the task. But now it's time to collect like a man possessed by a devil.

While propagating my dubious politico-reglio-spiritual messages, I asked a non-participant for a cup of coffee. He obliged. If I must will even ask women these days. I'll savor every moment medicinally enhanced or otherwise. This is the climax of my struggle. I am learning the art of tying the braids of dependance only to let them go all at once. I'm older now, my time for tasking is over. It's not worth what I collect.

As night falls, the air is pleasantly cool and dry—ideal for slumber. Despite resting on an unyielding concrete slab, I awake well-rested. Instinctively, I check my wallet; my capital remains intact, a testament to my self-discipline. The question of whether I will engage in transactions today is no longer shrouded in uncertainty. Should I decide to augment my funds, I can do so without frantic haste.

The following morning finds me seated outside the task location, harboring a faint hope that a fellow participant, arriving early, might offer some assistance. Otherwise, I must forgo a day of marketing. One completely ignores me, while another, unexpectedly generous, purchases breakfast to complement the meals I have already begun claiming at mobile pick-up counters.

The cold is oppressive, rendering my usual rounds impossible. Though I have only consumed a negligible amount of medication today, my outlook remains positive. Tomorrow heralds Friday, potentially offering an opportunity to gather resources before the bus leaves for the market.

I should attend the twilight task, at least, but I won't. The day has been exhausting enough, and I'm utterly fed up with the task. However, I see no alternative. Negotiating at collaborators' tables is not only self-actualizing but also a means to financial independence. How else can I generate the necessary capital? No one has ever amassed wealth merely by working a job. The pervasive nastiness I witness in people around me must stem from their employment. Surely, humans aren't naturally so disagreeable.



Each day unfolds with predictable monotony. The exhausting routine of tasking, collecting, and transacting consumes me until I hope to stumble upon that one lucrative transaction capable of transforming my life. Amidst this relentless grind, I must attempt to find moments of rest. I question whether it can truly be called sleep when I'm perpetually aware of those tasking around me. Sometimes they rouse me, insisting I join them. Other times, they take pity and allow me to remain sprawled on the floor, a brief respite from the ceaseless cyclical demand.

Not far away lies another city, boasting multiple markets and an abundance of task locations. Yet, I remain tethered to the familiarity of my current surroundings, awaiting the moment I generate sufficient funds to safely venture into the unknown. The option to return north lingers, but the encroaching cold makes it too risky without an assurance of shelter. So here I stay, caught between what I know and the promise of change.

I’m starting to have misgivings over transacting. This not the mindset of an entrepreneur, but that of a clock-puncher. I put myself in a must-profit situation. Now I’m overly concern about losing money. No risk, no gain. I know. Nothing’s a sure thing, but... I’m too exhausted by the task. I can’t take it anymore. But if I end my participation in the task or even take a vacation from it, what will I do for money? Even when I’m up north pursuing my pursuits in their libraries open all day, I have to take an occasional break. You need a little cash to refresh yourself from time to time.

Shonas says when things are good its due to my past karma. But when things suck, that’s due to my past karmas as well? I really don’t understand how it can be both at the same time. “Just make meditation your first priority and it will all fall into place”. I sometimes think he’s just trying to brainwash me into doing his bidding at the market, that dishonest son-a-bitch.


“But the task must go. It doesn’t end; there’s only break-time” on say my fellow-participant-colleagues. I say, “Fuck those disingenuous bitches”. I’ve been brainwashed enough. I only need food.

Was the Task-master ever there to supervise me all along? His instructions never really made sense. I've had my triumphs and failures. The last fifteen or so years of my life, let's call them chapters, have been written in a multi-tome blue-book with invisible ink. But everything, it turned out, was empty.

I did the task. I was renumerated. I was never satisfied. The only thing I needed was not to need. I want to collaborate for the sake of collaboration. If I got anything pecuniary out of it, fine, but I really just wanted to do the job well, rest and pursue my loftier pursuits. My coffee and bread procured; I could sometimes abstain from medication to economize.

It's time to create new modes of expression for the incapacitated. We will be heard even if no one wants to listen.