The toils of labor become an easy burden when one works long and regular enough to allow one’s body to adjust end one’s mind to forget and indulge in the new affairs of employment. So, when the ruins of the labor movement in our time still standing, grant us a few more days of than the two of sabbat and the seventh day of the week’s end, the first response of the body is to relax it’s muscles, stretch its limbs. The mind, this faithful brother of our body catapults into the free space, like an elastic that was stretched out till breaking point, and flexing it’s new freedom, it knows nothing of the forces that manage its spasmic happiness. On a normal Sunday already, our mind restores the order and looks forward to get ready and cope with another full week of obligation. But not so over Thanksgiving, when the American mind, and among it, me too, are allowed to rest and enjoy an extra Thursday and Friday, in total the luxury of four full days. I have to think of the field slaves of the old south, who were given off the week of Christmas, and to celebrate their freedom from their master, they drank and partied, tranquilizing their minds, softening their pains. Of course, there’s the consumer’s frenzy of Thanksgiving shopping now to replace the extacy and bliss of the slave’s home brewed alcohol, after all, we are civilized middle-class people now, no slaves, and this is America, so we are no subjects of capital like the European labor classes, but we are all aspiring capitalists, so we acquire our share of the American middle-class dream. But on the second day our minds, with nothing to look forward to, unbound by the prospect of obligation, and unable to move freely on its own now the rebounding force of the elastic has lost its flex, I feel restless. I know that tomorrow, or perhaps even tonight already, if I am lucky, I will restore my self, and indulge in the creative force of self again, in learning and being driven by the heart beat of my own flesh, but until then, I reside in the limbo of the day after the last day of work. Oh shameful self, to be such a convincing subject of labors that are not born of my own.