So right now I am sitting on a public computer at the Johnson County Public Library. I have the day off of work and I brought my son here (who has the day off of school) to obtain a couple of library cards. Somewhere between the fiction aisle of Jones-Kunstler (thumbing through a copy of Kerouac's "On the Road" and shamelessly drooling all over the print) and non-fiction foreign language reference (all of the Italian tutorials are on cassette tape. really?) I decided that I must start a formal blog. Had to. Immediately. Just for the fuck of it. I logged onto computer #9, hit google blogs, and here I am. I have 64 minutes remaining in which to spill whatever it is that needed to be released so publicly. 63 minutes.
The fact of the matter is that I physically need to write. I'm desperately in love with the sound of my own words, how they flow from my fingertips so effortlessly and eloquently (at times) even when I write pissed off. I cannot seem to use that same sort of verbal free self-expression without fucking up my point and/or sticking my foot in my mouth. Unfortunately, I haven't been equipped with a vocal delete key (or a mute button, much to the dismay of those around me). I've tried blogging on myspace but I'm so over that. I suppose it was only a matter of time before I felt like I absolutely had to write again, doing so publicly and at the same time reaching a wider audience. Though I haven't yet decided whether or not I give a damn if anyone is reading. Or listening. Having it out there is good enough for me, and it means that I don't have to talk about it if I can write it down. I live in terrible fear of being constantly misunderstood and writing seems to convey my emotions and thoughts better than word vomit.
56 minutes.
Books I am checking out today? I went for "Toxic Work", "Time Off for Good Behavior: How Hardworking Women Can Take a Break and Change Their Lives", "You Don't Need a Title to Be a Leader", "Is Your Genius at Work?" (notice a trend?) along with "Generation Debt" and some fiction for good measure, Mark Haddon's "A Spot of Bother". Mark Haddon wrote a fantastic book a few years back entitled "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime." Great read - I highly recommend it.
My son just came over and asked me if I thought they had video games available for check-out. He failed to see the irony of that question.
Back to my title list. Certainly work is on my mind, as it is most hours, most days. I feel like I haven't decided what I want to do with my life yet and not quite convinced that I'm not meant to be doing what I am doing now. Confused? Try being me. Most days it isn't about the work itself as much as it is the work environment and my own behavior. I do admit when I manage to find myself with a light workload and I am able to put in a normal 9-5, the work itself begins to eat at me. What is it about my life that is causing me so much discontent? I must be careful what I wish for because one of my biggest fears is complacency. The major problem I have recently discovered is that I don't seem to understand what being an adult really means, and I certainly lack an ability to behave in adult-like manner if I don't get whatever anyone is fucking talking about.
By the way, apparently the library does offer video games for borrowing, though not at this location. The irony still stings but I am intrigued enough to take my son to Lackman to peruse the selection.
47 minutes.
Words like responsibility and committment and obligation leave me pale and sweaty, like the after-effect of too many tequila shots without the brief deliciousness on my tongue and general feeling of being bad-ass. Whatever happened to happiness and willingness and inspiration? Why should the road to self-fulfillment involve forcing myself to choose a path on which to drag my feet slowly along as I head for death? My dramatic interpretation of employment and career may be lost on most, but at least I'm colorful if anything. No one is forcing you to read this.
Are these books that I've checked out going to help me? What kind of help am I looking for? I have no freaking idea. I don't know what I am looking for, but I do realize that I won't find it in one of those books. My difficulty (prepare to hate me) is that I have all of these assets - not strengths exactly, because some of them are very raw and under-utilized - but I do possess a myriad of abilities any one of which would allow me to pursue a different career path. It's not set in stone for me, my path has never been obvious and I have finally come to the realization that it's because there isn't one. I don't take the road less traveled by - I pull my machete from my belt and hack the shit out of some brush and make my own fucking road. It's got so many twists and turns and dead-ends and alleyways that from an aerial view I imagine it looks as if three drunken farmers on riding mowers let loose in the field and decided to race. And got lost.
That's me. I'm lost. None of what I want to do with my life is related at all to work and career. As much as I love to write, as obsessed as I am with words and expression, I don't even know what I want to do with that. I don't know what I can do with that. Fiction, non-fiction, self-help, journalism, travel reviews, what the fuck? I don't know. If there was a way to investigate that without being penalized I would do it. And by "penalized" I mean fired from my job, arrested by the Kansas Department of Children and Family Services, chased down by bill collectors and ostracized by my friends and family. Well, not all of them because some of them are fucking nuts and admittedly enjoy living vicarously through me, even if it means laughing at my ridiculousness. A friend of mine (who writes one hell of a blog herself) recently left our shared place of employment to pursue that which makes her happy - writing. As she builds her porfolio she spends her time earning a proper wage a local restaurant/brewery. I could never do that. At least I don't think so. I'm not sure. Does it make sense to leave a salaried position with medical benefits in this economy while trying to raise a 10-year old by myself? Is that responsible?
But what is responsibility? I feel like too many times when we utter that word we are referring more to responsibility to society and others, rather than responsibility to ourselves. Is it more irresponsible to pursue a career path that will never quite "fit", performing it adequately and even better than most while still falling far short of my true life potential? When is it time to cut my losses with that machete, step back into the jungle and find a new way? Can I be truly happy carrying out the trajectory upon which I have been stumbling for the past three years? Somewhere along the way I hit adulthood without realizing it and I am doing a poor job at coping. I see folks younger than I am who seem to have it figured out. Are you freaking kidding me? In restless nights of sleep I lie awake by the noise in my head, wishing carelessly that I was a folk who had it figured out, so simple and one-dimensional with an IQ much lower than that I possess. I feel guilty and selfish and unappreciative that I have been given the opportunity to learn and grow in a corporate setting. But I feel the most guilty on those days when it does seem to fit, when I find myself getting lost in the white-collar business, the sterility of it all, when I find myself in a flow making decisions without thought feeling comfortable in my surroundings. I am wicked smart and can be dangerously manipulative. I know how to play the game.
But just because I can do something doesn't mean that I should be doing it. It feels...wrong. Like I am cheating myself. Like I am misrepresenting myself. Like I am not being true to who I really am.
Who the fuck that is, I have no idea
and I won't find her in the next 13 minutes before this session is terminated. I'll sign off now and continue my search. Perhaps she's in the Young Adult section taking herself way less seriously...
