Series, succession and flows. A note to Jesse Andrews’ Succession (2018-2023)

[Spoilers ahead]

In more than one way Jesse Andrews’ Succession (2018-2023) is a show all about the limits and possibilities of successions. That is, not only is the show worried about the way a series of similar events happen after each other, but also the show is worried on the contingency of this series. Precisely, the drama of the Roy family, a corporate juggernaut owner of a giant broadcast company (ATN), along with thematic amusement parks and cruise lines in the US, resembling closely America’s Murdoch conglomerate, is not only about the demise of the patriarch, Logan Roy, and the future successor, but about the idea of succession in a broader sense. What is beyond, or after, the riches, the power, the corporate and familial relations that a global enterprise, owner of all forms of entertainment, have proven to fall short in a world where friendship is impossible, and any relationship is murky and fragile? Or to put it differently, and, perhaps, clearer, what comes next after the normal way of capitalist accumulation of power, wealth, influence, and enjoyment has collapsed? For the crisis of the Logan family is not only theirs. Today power, wealth, influence, and enjoyment are no longer achieved by the bond of friendship, or other bonds proper to the development of bourgeois society (family values, codes of sociability, and so on). With Logan Roy’s foretold death, as early in the series is announced by the stroke, he suffers that only deteriorates his health throughout the show, Succession wonders what happens once the master of these bonds is gone. 

In chapter one of the first season, way before Logan Roy has his first stroke that sends him to a coma, there is a meaningful scene. This is the opening scene. With a camera angle that can hardly focus, a confused Logan Roy walks into a corner of a dark room. He then proceeds to pee on the carpet and the camera focuses on the stain the flow of pee makes onto the surface. Once he’s done, Logan regains awareness of what has happened. Then, a service woman assists him. Finally, Marcia, his by then wife, enters the room and comforts him. This scene is not only foretelling the fate of Logan, as his health deteriorates, but it is also participating of a particular visual tradition. It is, for instance, a very similar scene to the opening one of the first episode of the show Billions (2016-2023), created by Brian Koppelman, David Levien, and Andre Ross Sorkin). In Billions, a show about the dispute between billionaires and ruthless district attorney in New York, the opening scene is not about a foretold sickness, but about pure enjoyment: a man is golden showered by his mistress. 

Both opening scenes, from Succession and Billions, are revisiting the famous scene of Sergei Eisenstein Ivan the Terrible (1944), when the tsar is showered on coins at the moment of his coronation. That is, the flows of money that showered the figure of the sovereign, validated as well by the people and the orthodox church, in Eisenstein crudely manifested (revisited) in contemporary visual culture. From this perspective, both Succession and Billions are telling us about the place on which the flows money, and capital land. If for the modernity, from Eisenstein view, it is the sovereign who receives all flows, realizing money into capital and so on, in Billions, for instance, the golden shower Chuck Rhoades, the NY city attorney, receives is but a flow deterritorialized of capital. He is getting full jouissance, and, hence, invigorating his will against billionaires. The lesson from Billions is that the money of billionaires masochistically moves the libido of the police since it is Chuck Rhoades, the ruthless lawyer that “hunts” billionaires, who is receiving this flow. In Succession’s first scene the flow is coming from a billionaire (Logan Roy’s pee), and the place where it lands is but a corner of a room in his apartment. Here the tragedy becomes visible: from a world in which the figure of the sovereign (Ivan the Terrible) was the recipient of the flows, transforming them into capital, now we have a world in which the police perversion is moved by the flows they received (Billions), and more radically, where the ones expelling the flows don’t know where to throw them (Succession). Logan Roy’s confused peeing contrasts precisely with his well-intentioned “demarcation of territory” when peeing in the office of his son Kendall Roy, when the latter attempts to become the successor of his father’s firm in the first season. By peeing confusedly in a corner of his house, Logan Roy’s actions tell us of capitalism integral and general crisis: where to pee next? Where to mark new territory? Or even more, now capitalism does not know how to realize the flow into capital, now it is just pee into a corner, a sign of an acute sickness. 

Flows are everywhere in Succession. From Kendall Roy, Logan’s eldest son, a recovering addict, to the quantities of liquor all character’s drink, including a pregnant Siobhan Roy, the only daughter of the patriarch, in the fourth season, or the semen Roman Roy, the youngest son, ejaculates on the crystal window of his office in the first season, the show is constantly reiterating how flows failed to be transformed into capital, or even into something else rather than the crudest real they represent. In the case of Roman Roy, for instance, his ejaculation on his office’s window glass already manifests how he is unable to engage in any type of affection with women. He cannot have sex. By the fact that during this scene his semen is throwed into a clear surface that both suggests thrownness and narcissism, the show is addressing the incapability of capitalism to escape its own ego. Roman Roy’s semen won’t ever be part of the (re)production of life, it will just be a projectile crashing on a clear surface: an illusion of death trapped in narcissism. In contrasts with Logan Roy’s pee, Roman’s ejaculation does not worry about territorializing, and neither is the effect of a deterritorialization (he knows what he is doing, he covers the inside windows of his office before masturbating). Roman is rather affirming cynically his impossibility of being the successor, or of having any sort of succession from within the family. 

Even formally, at all times, we are reminded that flows are cut and that successions are very contingent, if not impossible, in the show. Characters like Craig, a distant cousin of the Roys, or Tom Wambsgans, Siobhan’s husband, constantly are interrupted when speaking. And all characters, in general, constantly stutter when approaching Logan Roy. When Kendal, for example, confronts his father in person, he is unable to utter a series of words without stuttering. Or to bring another example, when audited by the US Senate, Tom cannot respond to the questions and his speech and answers are but broken sentences and stutters. Even more, the opening theme of the entire show is built both visually and musically on works that play with the possibilities and impossibilities of succession. The music play that accompanies the opening images of the show mixes different genres, from a scale on piano to beats of hip hop with a syncopal rhythm. The images of the opening credits are a succession interrupted by images that overlap out of context. The main sequence, a family video tape of a family portrait of the Roys, is interrupted by images from the ATN TV network, and other familial moments. These series of interruptions, overlaps, and breaks that cut the flows, but do not entirely stop them, and that make contingent any series and succession, could be understood as a cumulation: an entropic pile up of things profusely affecting us. 

If normally, capitalism guarantees as process of series and succession based on the way flows are transformed into accumulations of use, labour, and value that is yet to be realized into capital, in Succession what gathers the flows by recovering their cuts, stops and overlaps is far from a traditional accumulation. Regular capitalist accumulation is based on the principle that a sovereign can arbitrate and transform an amassing of things into capital, but with the demise of Logan Roy the flows are deterritorialized, and by extension it all becomes alien to the power of the sovereign validation. What piles up in the show, money, lobby meetings, weddings, drugs, cars, or to sum up, excess and residue of all kinds is still gathered, as the flows are still continuing, but the succession, as a series, cannot be continued. Almost playing with numerology, the show stops on its fourth season. Four, for Tarot, is the number of dominance, or of the aporia of domination, thigs have accumulated and are perfectly stable, or precisely suggesting all the opposite a complete disarray that only tricks the lonely emperor who sits on top of a too small world (as the Camoin and Jodorowsky Tarot de Marseille illustrates the card). 

At the end of the show, when a succession has been achieved, not directly inside of the family, and the company has been sold to foreign investors, flows ratify their continuity, but this next succession is but transitional, a façade: the new investors, a Sweden billionaire (who also is obsessed with flows, he sent to his assistant bags of his blood as a romantic/ harassing gesture) is going to radically transform the company. From this, there no longer a possibility for transferring, succeeding, the regular order of things. 

El aplazamiento y el desplazamiento. Notas sobre La estrategia del caracol (1993) de Sergio Cabrera

La estrategia del caracol no es sólo una historia sobre el despojo. O más bien, es una historia sobre la intervención y la transformación del despojo en otra forma de desplazamiento o mudanza. La película comienza cuando un grupo de periodistas llegan a una calle atiborrada de cosas. El reportero del grupo pregunta a un hombre viejo qué es lo que pasa, y éste, a punto de responder de forma agresiva, es interrumpido por otro personaje. Éste se presenta como miembro de la ya desalojada casa de “la Pajarera.” Y en palabras de este nuevo personaje, “el paisa,” lo que el reportero está presenciando es la “injusticia de la justicia.” En este sentido, la historia que vemos ya iniciada es la ya sabida historia de la acumulación originaria, aquella del robo y el despojo, aquella escrita en letras de sangre en los anales de la historia. De ahí, el paisa comienza a narrar la historia de un despojo previo, de “la Pajarera” y de una casa vecina, al reportero y su equipo. Esta primera escena ya resume un mecanismo que se repite en la película. Este mecanismo consiste en un desplazamiento del afecto por una narración o creación artificial (la reacción del hombre viejo por la narración del paisa), y también la de la intervención de un tiempo diferido. Es decir, la historia nos enseña sobre el diferir de los afectos y su transformación en una narración, un plan o una estrategia. 

Precisamente, la película confronta dos tipos de procedimientos, al menos. Por una parte está la fe ciega que “el perro,” un leguleyo residente de una de las casas a ser desalojadas, tiene hacia la ley y sus mecanismos. Por otra parte está la estrategia que Jacinto inventa: la creación de un sistema de tramoyas y poleas para mover toda la casa en que viven él, el perro, y los demás inquilinos a ser desalojados. Esta estrategia busca sacar cada cosa de la casa y moverla hacia la “Pajarera,” una casa que se resiste al despojo por medio de la acción armada, para de ahí transportar todo a la cima de un cerro a las afueras de la ciudad. En este sentido, la trama de la película, que es también la historia que cuenta “el paisa,” depende de cómo estas dos estrategias trabajan para diferir el inevitable despojo. Si bien, estas son de las principales estrategias, o planes, que se presentan en la película, también están otras. Está, por ejemplo, la reacción armada y violenta, a la que recurren un grupo de inquilinos de la casa vecina a donde son transportadas las cosas y los muros de la casa de Jacinto y el perro. A su vez, todas estas estrategias trabajan en contra de los caprichos del acaudalado dueño legal de las fincas, un hombre fascinado por las máquinas y demás dispositivos asociados a la captura fílmica y acústica. Con este personaje se tiende un eje de oposición que ubica a los desposeídos, como aquellos que poseen una estrategia y además construyen sus propias máquinas, en contra del que desposee, que está meramente fascinado con las cámaras de video, las televisiones y las grabadoras. Los desposeídos son creativos, los que desposeen son reactivos, parece decirnos el filme de Cabrera.

Quizá las lecciones más radicales del filme son las siguientes. Primero, el filme, en una suerte de apotropaia conservadora, es decir, en el hecho de dar por sentado que el despojo algún día llegará y que nada se puede hacer para evitarlo, nos enseña que todos, algún día, habremos de mudarnos, o de morirnos. Lázaro, el inquilino más viejo de la vecindad, es asesinado por su esposa ante la inminente urgencia de acelerar el proceso de mudanza. Por el hecho de que Lázaro esté durante casi toda la película en estado moribundo, se puede decir que la estrategia de Jacinto, en combinación con la estrategia legal del perro, son como el aplazamiento del asesinato del Lázaro. Como la fachada de la casa es tronada con dinamita al final de la película, así también la esposa de Lázaro decide acabar con la pantalla de vida que tenía su esposo. La segunda lección radical es que en lo más real se esconde un simulacro, o un artificio. En la escena que representaría el estado máximo de violencia, la explosión de dinamita que derrumba la fachada de la casa, nadie muere ni resulta herido, sino que sólo la fachada de la casa de desmorona casi como escenografía de teatro. Al fondo del lote baldío donde estuviera el inquilinato se ve una casa pintada y en el centro del espacio arde la tramoya que transportara las cosas de los inquilinos. Como si el filme se suicidara, destruyendo el espacio más creativo de toda la película, se deja ver en las ruinas aquello que fascina al acaudalado dueño pero que no puede él mismo crear ni completamente poseer: un simulacro violento, un artificio agresivo, una imagen y su violenta emergencia en lo real. 

Notes to The Interpretation of Dreams (1899/1913) Sigmund Freud. Trans. A.A. Brill. I

Chapters 1 to 4

The main purpose of The Interpretation of Dreams is to prove that dreams are part of the waking state, that they are “a senseful psychological structure which might be introduced into an assignable place in the psychic activity of the waking state” (13). Dreams are, thanks to the technique Freud is about to present, a part which has no “official” belonging into the structures that form the waking state, conscious. In a way, the task of interpreting dreams, then, is a task of giving place, a task of ordering, or to assign order a missing part of its very own structure. Throughout the first chapter, Freud revisits many of the different approaches that have studied dreams. In the summary presented in this chapter, we learn that nothing is set on stone when it comes to discussing and interpreting dreams. For some authors, Freud says, “the discovery of the origin of some of the dream elements depends on accident” (22), or that what appears in the dream is what has been “pushed aside from the elaboration of the working thought” (35). Dreams escapes us, their mechanisms are not clear. Indeed, Freud affirms that “the entire memory of the dream is open to an objection calculated to depreciate its value very markedly in critical eyes. One may doubt whether our memory, which omits so much from the drea, does not falsify what is retained” (52). And yet, once we remember a dream, it is not so much a story that we remember, but “pictures… which resemble more the perception than the memory presentations” (55). 

To interpret dreams, then, one should learn how to read pictures. These are the residual, but also excessive, symbolic activity of fantasy. Whereas in dreams the “clearness of language is rendered especially difficult by the fact that [they] show a dislike for expressing an object by its own picture,” in a dream what we have is a “strange picture,” one that “can only express that moment of the object which it wishes to describe” (86). The pictures we see in dreams are not like the acoustic images that years later Sausurre’s Cours de linguistique général, that is, the images of a dream are not attached to one single object but are only “that moment of the object which [the dream] wishes to describe” (86). The dream gives away, or reveals itself as a “somatic process… which makes itself known to the psychic apparatus by means of signs” (99). This serves as point of departure of Chapter 2, in which Freud presents a sample dream, the famous Irma’s injection dream. And subsequently, Chapter 3 and 4 introduce the notion of understanding the dream as a fulfillment both affirmative and negative (distorted).

In these four chapters we read some of the key contributions of what later would be psychoanalysis. Here for, instance, after Freud formulates that every dream is the manifestation of the desire to “fulfill a dream,” we read about the 2 forces, or systems, or streams (all these synonyms mentioned by Freud) that cause the dream formation. One of these “constitutes the wish expressed by the dream” (145), and the other one “acts as a censor upon this dream wish” (145). By the simile of the “censor,” we then realize that dream depends on a flow that wishes, desires, something, and that this affirmation is only available to consciousness by a process of censorship, a process of self-repression or even self-regulation. Freud puts the relationship between these two in the following terms: “Nothing can reach consciousness from the first system which has not first passed the second instance, and the second instance lets nothing pass nothing pass without exercising its rights and forcing such alterations upon the candidate for admission to consciousness as are pleasant to itself” (146). Conscience, for Freud, “appears to us as an organ of sense” (146). And the sense of consciousness is what is “pleasant to itself” (146). Hence, the act of censorship collaborates with the wish fulfilment. It is, then, not surprising that Freud closes the fourth chapter by describing the mechanisms of certain dreams that seem to distort, or withdraw from, the fulfillment of desire. Withdrawal, or repression, is by extension a form of affirmation, a machoistic one, a neurotic one, a hysteric one. Freud has summarized what later will inspire further works on the way jouissance is at the chore of the mechanisms of desire flow control.

While surely this book is mainly about the interpretation of t dreams. What would it take to read the text with its own proposed technique? Indeed, this book has an affective clear purpose. Freud seeks revenge: “if there were such a thing in science as right to revenge” (95), the interpretation of dreams will be part of that violent revenge. Freud, perhaps, is telling us that to think what escapes sense (dreams), one should be closer the Iliad’s first verses. One should open this thought, like Homer, with rage. And even more, what sort of rage will one find in Freud’s text if one were to consider that most of his examples involve leisure (the trips with his family in chapter 3), intoxication (cocaine in the injection that kills a friend of his in the dream example of chapter 2), the law (the judge at the end of chapter 4)? Would this be merely a rage directed to a reduced group? Or would this rage have the chance for thinking an heterogeneous but open field for thinking? 

Infrapolítica en Los muertos y el periodista (2021) de Óscar Martínez

Desde el inicio de Los muertos y el periodista (2021), de Óscar Martínez, se advierte sobre el tema principal del libro, pero también sobre la diferencia radical que tiene este libro en comparación con otros escritos por Martínez. Este es también un libro en el que “hay pandilleros, pero no es sobre pandillas; hay narcos” pero “no va de narcos; hay El Salvador, Honduras, Guatemala, México, Estados Unidos, pero no va sobre esos países; también hay policías y jueves y presidentes y políticos corruptos, pero no pretende profundizar en ese mal endémico de la región; hay migrantes y no es sobre migración; hay reflexiones de periodismo y frases de periodistas célebres, pero no va sobre eso” (12-13). Eso que hay en, pero no “de lo que va” el libro es la diferencia radical a la que apunta Martínez. Si sus trabajos anteriores fueron ejercicios periodísticos de largo trabajo y dedicación, este libro, como se dice desde las primeras páginas, fue escrito “como vomitar” (11). Así pues, este es un libro sobre la distinción, o la diferencia absoluta, entre aquello que hay y aquello que es, entre lo que es trabajo (escribir) y lo que es orgánico (vomitar), y entre los muertos y el periodista.

Aquello que separa al periodista de los muertos es también lo que los une. La principal historia que el libro cuenta, construida a partir de digresiones, reflexiones y comentarios sobre el trabajo anterior de Martínez y otros de sus compañeros periodistas, es la de una muerte anunciada, como la de casi cualquier fuente que pueda tener un periodista como Martínez: Rudi, un dieciochero que presenció una masacre realizada por policías en El Salvador, esquiva su muerte hasta que años después policías irrumpen en su casa y secuestran a él y a dos de sus hermanos. Jéssica, la hermana mayor de Rudi, y Martínez, se encargan de identificar los cuerpos de los dos hermanos de Rudi, cuando estos aparecen. Pero de Rudi, no quedó sino un cráneo quemado, una calavera imposible de identificar. El desenlace es una ya sabida desazón, un no saber, y una absoluta impotencia. Al final, el periodista vive, una buena historia se escribe y se vende, y los muertos se apilan en un cúmulo interminable. Y aún así, es por la vida de Rudi, su confesión y su historia, que muertos y periodista guardan una relación casi irrompible. 

La diferencia entre muertos y periodista está en la completa obviedad que conllevan ambas palabras. Los muertos son muchos, el periodista es uno solo. Los muertos preceden al periodista, el segundo es un mero agregado (aquello que sigue de la “y”). Aún así, es por el agregado, el periodista, que aquello que precede puede hallar un espacio en la escritura. El asunto, claro está, es que escribir no es, para nada, un oficio feliz. Ante la famosa frase de Gabriel García Márquez, sobre eso de que el mejor oficio del mundo es el periodismo, Martínez afirma, “‘No jodás’ le respondería con muchísima admiración” (36). Para Martínez, el oficio del periodista “da un privilegio inmenso y una enorme responsabilidad: atestiguar el mundo en primera fila. Aunque a veces, casi siempre, el espectáculo sea nefasto” (36). El periodista, entonces, es aquel que ve aquello que es siniestro, lo que duele, pero que también expande la imaginación y provoca la escritura. El periodista registra un infinito incalculable donde se mezcla el dolor, el asombro y la curiosidad en el nudo machacado de las palabras.

Desde esta perspectiva, entonces, se podría pensar que la escritura es en sí una práctica que guarda las distancias insalvables, una práctica de la diferencia absoluta entre aquellos que viven y mueren, y el “individuo” que registra todo en una multitud: los muertos. Es decir, el periodista es aquel que escribe siempre sobre los muertos, es aquel que encara siempre a esa siniestra multitud. Los muertos y el periodista es un libro sobre ese espacio crepuscular donde se diferencia lo que hay y lo que es: un espacio infrapolítico, similar a aquello que Alberto Moreiras define como eso de lo que ningún experto puede hablar. Desde ese espacio siniestro, esa infinita distancia, pero también infinita cercanía, es que se invita a pensar la relación misma entre muertos y periodista, entre lo existente y su registro, lo que duele y sus marcas. Sólo desde aquí es que uno pudiera ver en Los muertos y el periodista no sólo un libro de distancias insalvables, sino un umbral hacia otra parte y diferentes comienzos.

The Kingdom of This World

It is the fact that in Haiti—and the Americas more generally—two (or more) perspectives rub up against each other and clash, shattering the notion that they can harmoniously be contained within the same organic totality, that provokes the surprised awe and wonder that Carpentier reports experiencing, and attempts to recreate in this novel.

How to look for a job in a jobfair

Hi there. 

If you’re already at a moment in your life when you cannot defer more the construction of your career, perhaps a good place to start is to attend a jobfair. These events are more than crowded places where people get free bags, tags, pens, shirts and folders for free. This is a good opportunity for meeting employers who are looking for employees. And while this is confusing, and you might be afraid to attend, you should go because that is what is looking for a job. 

In the following blogpost you’ll learn about “how to look for a job in a jobfair.”

In case you haven’t attended to one of these events, the first thing you should do is to investigate if one is happening soon. If you are a university student, your university should have a “careers online” portal with options for students and alumni. If you’re not a student but wish to attend to one of these events organize by a public university, in most cases you’ll be able to attend. If not, perhaps the best option would be to search online for other opportunities. 

Once you have registered online, make sure to follow as many advice as you can from the same portal you registered at. Most often than not there will be one-hour videos with useful tips and questions from the audience. 

After this, you should prepare your resume. If you have been studying most of your life and you haven’t applied for any full-time employment, the resume is a first big challenge. This type of text translates your life experiences into a two-page document where you use verbs that can quantify any important skills or abilities you may or may not have. Use words like “deliver” and “result oriented” if you wish to impact the possible HR reader. Avoid mentioning that you are desperate and looking for a job. And finally, always make sure that your contact information is readable.

Once you have your resume and you have watched most of the online tutorials in preparation for the jobfair, make sure you have appropriate clothes. If you happen to live in a city like Vancouver, you should be fine wearing a clean shirt and pants. Wear colours that look good on you and feel confident. 

Arriving at the jobfair could be intimidating, especially if you realize that most of the people is wearing suits. If you feel out of place and wish to go to the closest bar to you, remind yourself you have a lot of education, you are like anybody else, and you also need a job. Enter to the fair. Inside you quickly realize that the event is way bigger than you imagine. There are two levels and there are people bursting from too many different directions. There is even a coatcheck, but you’re lucky because you decide to not wear a coat. 

As you enter the venue you can finally use your skills of small talk because you have watched How to with Jon Wilson. So you’re confident with your small talk abilities. 

Now it’s the time. You go to the stands of the companies you looked online. Those very same companies that did not show up when you added to the jobfair search filter the words “teaching” or “write,” two of your favourite things to do in life and things that you are actually good at and care about. Once you arrive to one of the stands of the companies you’re interested in, you realize you completely misunderstood what the company does. They help you get a job, they don’t hire. They’re looking for costumers, not for employees. You soon realize that the two other companies you were interested in are also looking for costumers. 

Whether it is because most of the jobs at the fair are not funny, or are in areas that do not interest you at all, or because you simply cannot see yourself doing one of those jobs, you feel defeated. After all these years of education you cannot drop any of the 5 resumes you printed into any stand. You go to the company that sells paper at the fair, but there is no Michael Scott that would recruit you. Not even the free merchandise uplifts you. You’re in a vortex and the suits and expensive clothes of most of the people asphyxiate you. You wanted this. And even if you already knew that none of this companies is looking for anything that you can do well, you feel exhausted and humiliated, drowning in a sea of opportunities. You feel that there is no place to go, until suddenly someone touches your back. A friend who you have not seen for more than 3 years is there. 

The two of you leave the jobfair. Then you have a coffee. She tells you about her life. Her parents in Delhi are getting older and older and the weather over there is going nuts. Schools are closing because of pollution, or high temperature. She returned to Vancouver to find an opportunity, she has a valid work-permit and has found a job. She was at the fair looking for a full-time job, hers is hourly rate, and recently they have reduced her hours. At one time of the conversation, you both agree that today there are more people and less and less opportunities. More hourly rate jobs and less fulltime employment chances. It all seems that is measured by a rule of less and more. Less time at the bar, more time at the pharmacy. Less caffeine after 4 pm and more decaf tisanes. More time at the screen, less time in front of books. 

You both seem to be depressing each other. But then, for whatever reason people is having a hard time entering the coffee shop. Since you’re sitting next to the door at the patio, you start opening the door for the customers both entering and leaving. After some costumers have been granted access by your server-reflexes when opening the door for them, your friend suggests that a percentage of the tips those customers leave at the café should be yours. Some customer overhears and laughs. Perhaps this could have been a job at the jobfair, or perhaps, you think, this is how you find a job: you create it for yourself. But then you realize that letting people in or out is not for you. Your friend and you laugh. Then you make both your way home. In the bus she tells you she’s been learning Indian astrology. She finds it exciting and wishes she had learned it before, perhaps by now you and her could run a business of Tarot and Indian Astrology reading. 

Once you are home and your friend is at a party she had to attend, you tell your girlfriend the best part of the jobfair was meeting your old friend. You were looking for a job but reconnected with a friend. You rush to your computer. Your online work is about to start. 2 hours later you finish your dinner. And while your girlfriend plays a lullaby with a ukulele, you realize that today you were actually looking for a job. You followed the plan. And, more importantly, you bumped into an old friend. So, it was a good day, and looking for a job was not that scary, it was indeed kind of fun. 

This is Ricardo García. Thanks for reading.