Sounds like the title for a bad psychology 101 paper. Heh. I guess that's one benchmark for sucess in this culture - if you can't inspire brilliance, at least get a disorder named after you on your way out, right?
I've been trying to think of how come I can detach sometimes from the depression and look at it analytically, and then other times it's just too much and I can't sit back and separate it out. You know what the one consistent factor is? Sunlight.
Yep, sunlight. When it's sunny out or I'm sitting by a window and getting lots of direct and indirect sunlight, I feel perfectly fine. Normal, even. Sure, the depression can be raging around inside my mind, but it gets much thinner and quieter in the sunlight. I don't think that happy lights do the same thing. I think that I need to be in a well-lit area during the wintertime.
Well, at least it's a simple solution, but the problem is that I don't get enough of it in the wintertime and there's nothing to be done about that when the sun has set each night. But at least in my current job I get to sit right by a window and look out at the sunlight each day.
Hey, I'm counting my positives and blessings. It's not that I'm stuck in despair, but I just need to figure out how to get myself motivated and in motion again. Funny thing, that... with motion comes stability. Momentum will overcome slight bumps in the road. If I can build up enough momentum it makes the path seem straighter. Like attaining aerodynamics through rifling a bullet (so it spins as it flies).
Those are my thoughts on the matter. We'll see if they bear out.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Back in the saddle again
Depression is a bitch. A bitch, bitch-itty, bitch-bitch-bitch.
Let's just say that the last few days have been tolerable and pleasant by comparison with those endured earlier, but that I wouldn't wish this kind of crap on my enemies. Well, not chronically, at any rate. It's time to get back into the saddle again with regard to meds and doctors and mood altering substances of the legal, economically viable sort.
I'm actually fine and out of the "Gods, I just want to die and the world to go away and something to be -easy- for a change," stage, but lately I've been languishing in the "I'm making an effort, be happy with what you've got" stage. I don't feel despair, but I do live it constantly.
*sigh* I just found out that all of my files are somehow missing from my computer's shared folder. All of my candidates are gone from the hard drive. Sucks to be me.
More later.
Let's just say that the last few days have been tolerable and pleasant by comparison with those endured earlier, but that I wouldn't wish this kind of crap on my enemies. Well, not chronically, at any rate. It's time to get back into the saddle again with regard to meds and doctors and mood altering substances of the legal, economically viable sort.
I'm actually fine and out of the "Gods, I just want to die and the world to go away and something to be -easy- for a change," stage, but lately I've been languishing in the "I'm making an effort, be happy with what you've got" stage. I don't feel despair, but I do live it constantly.
*sigh* I just found out that all of my files are somehow missing from my computer's shared folder. All of my candidates are gone from the hard drive. Sucks to be me.
More later.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Road to Recovery
It's been a hell of a week, but I'm finally beginning to get back up into the healthy ranges of emotional variance again, instead of stuck down in the depths of despair. It's snowing lightly outside of work, and I've got a late appointment happening tonight at 6pm. Just interviewed someone who had very unreasonable expectations for salaries and parroted back all of my own recent questions to me. Should she stick this out or jump to another career path? Is it just a phase or is this a greater trend?
Had a call with an old manager and a competitor yesterday... in chatting about the industry he told me that my old supervisor has just posted excellent results and returns for January. *shrug* It's not a competition. I'm still recruiting and doing well, so I'm not worried. It's just a further commentary on how different a mindset I've got.
I noticed that one of my favorite shirts is now threadbare and with broken buttons today. Unfortunately the shirt is black so the threadbare part wasn't noticed until I was already here in the office. To cover it over I've put on my indoor fleece which keeps me warm. Even with the office heat on and toasty elsewhere, my desk sits me by a window and I'm constantly chilled here, so it's not unusual for me to wear the fleece.
I want to get HM's materials over to PM for presentation today. I think she'd be a good fit there, and they have an opening, so let's put da lime in da coconut.
Had a call with an old manager and a competitor yesterday... in chatting about the industry he told me that my old supervisor has just posted excellent results and returns for January. *shrug* It's not a competition. I'm still recruiting and doing well, so I'm not worried. It's just a further commentary on how different a mindset I've got.
I noticed that one of my favorite shirts is now threadbare and with broken buttons today. Unfortunately the shirt is black so the threadbare part wasn't noticed until I was already here in the office. To cover it over I've put on my indoor fleece which keeps me warm. Even with the office heat on and toasty elsewhere, my desk sits me by a window and I'm constantly chilled here, so it's not unusual for me to wear the fleece.
I want to get HM's materials over to PM for presentation today. I think she'd be a good fit there, and they have an opening, so let's put da lime in da coconut.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Big Trouble from Desperation
Yesterday I had a minor breakdown. I left work 2 hours early and dropped an email to my boss saying that we had to talk, the job wasn't working out the way I needed it to, should I go back to freelancing, yaddi yaddi yadda. I went home and just broke down and lost it, told my husband I thought I'd be better off if I could just lay down and die right now, said that I couldn't be the strong person anymore because I'm not, I'm weak and I feel like I'm drowning in misery and ... of course the only words that kept coming out were "I'm just so tired."
It's not fun. We're heading to the local mental health clinic to see what kind of help I can get which is not going to break the bank when it comes to buying medications. With no insurance or benefits through my job and a life-long disease to try and manage, I don't know what kind of help I can get. I mean, I do earn money, but there's precious little in the way of actual luxury in my life right now to strip away and free up the cash.
Whatever. I just hope I don't lose my job today. It would serve me right, I suppose, but ... I can't contemplate anything at that point. Either way, it's becoming clear that I am in a sort of economic slavery. I just wish I could see a way out that didn't entail relying on medicine for the rest of my life which I have no way to pay for, or losing what little I've got right now. I'm going to see if I can switch to a 1099 form instead of W2. I know that I can, and what that will mean is that the money normally taken out of my paychecks for taxes will come to me instead, but it means that I will have no ability to claim unemployment should I fail and it also means that if I don't pay my quarterly taxes myself I'm fucked beyond belief. But the ship of my life -is- sinking fast right now and I just need to buy some time against the hope against all hopes that something will give and I'll get the break I need in order to keep going. Otherwise I've got to start looking around for a place to house the cats while I return home to live with my folks again because I can't make this lifestyle work on my own.
Either way it's equivalent to a kind of suicide.
Please let the economy shift in my favor and the commissions start to rack up. Or let me find a job which will allow me the stability and salary and benefits I require to make this life _WORK_.
It's not fun. We're heading to the local mental health clinic to see what kind of help I can get which is not going to break the bank when it comes to buying medications. With no insurance or benefits through my job and a life-long disease to try and manage, I don't know what kind of help I can get. I mean, I do earn money, but there's precious little in the way of actual luxury in my life right now to strip away and free up the cash.
Whatever. I just hope I don't lose my job today. It would serve me right, I suppose, but ... I can't contemplate anything at that point. Either way, it's becoming clear that I am in a sort of economic slavery. I just wish I could see a way out that didn't entail relying on medicine for the rest of my life which I have no way to pay for, or losing what little I've got right now. I'm going to see if I can switch to a 1099 form instead of W2. I know that I can, and what that will mean is that the money normally taken out of my paychecks for taxes will come to me instead, but it means that I will have no ability to claim unemployment should I fail and it also means that if I don't pay my quarterly taxes myself I'm fucked beyond belief. But the ship of my life -is- sinking fast right now and I just need to buy some time against the hope against all hopes that something will give and I'll get the break I need in order to keep going. Otherwise I've got to start looking around for a place to house the cats while I return home to live with my folks again because I can't make this lifestyle work on my own.
Either way it's equivalent to a kind of suicide.
Please let the economy shift in my favor and the commissions start to rack up. Or let me find a job which will allow me the stability and salary and benefits I require to make this life _WORK_.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Wrestling with the demons
Well, the shittiness of the weekend hasn't ended. I've been wrestling over and over with demons and not doing so well with it just yet. All of the other readings said that I'm where I need to be, just put up with it and let it pass.
"It'll all be over soon," said the priest, quoting God's response to the suffering of this lifetime. Too bad eternal anything is just as much of hell as brimstone and damnation.
I did have a wonderful dream of being special in a weird way and having no one left to share it with. What a strong message, eh?
Oh, and I read up on Time Magazine's articles about mapping consciousness and the human brain. Apparently scientists think they're getting closer to the point at which they can conclusively prove that the brain is the source of consciousness instead of merely its seat within the human body. How odd that quantum mechanics is rapidly approaching the point of convergence with the spiritual theories of planes of existence, energy, magic, and acausality while the neuroscientists think they've got a lead on eliminating the concept of soul.
That will never happen, mainly because science cannot -ever- conclusively establish causality, merely disprove something. And besides, the arguments which were put forth on why the soul needs to be removed as a concept were pretty pathetic and weak, philosophically speaking. "Because the last folks to die in celebrated means in order to attain a reward hereafter were the 9/11 Terrorists." Fuck off, Time writers. That's got to be the single weakest argument I've EVER heard. Just because there's a spiritual system which doesn't play well with modern sensibilities doesn't mean that the spiritual truths are to be so conveniently discarded. I don't care whether anyone actually believes like me or not, yet I'm quite the spiritual being.
So sad. Science is a tool for understanding, a system for learning, but it is not and never will be a voice of authority prescribing reality. Every single scientific achievement and advancement and all of its wonders must be conditionally accepted with the phrase "...as well as we can determine given the state of technology and our comprehension right now." Nothing so fluid as the establishment of fact by consensus can ever truly understand anything at its essential levels. And a fundamental principle of the universe is that those who understand a thing simply cannot describe that understanding, because mystery veils itself.
Well, I'm not trashing science. I believe it has its place, and I heartily approve of all of its advances, but when it starts trying to reach for the place of authority in declaring the nature of hidden things... well, let's just say that no one ever expects a scientist to be able to give comfort in the face of the overwhelming human condition. They can alleviate many conditions, but comfort is a spiritual matter. Even doctors learn that when the medicines and technologies fail, they must return to something described as 'bedside manner'.
"And all thy learning and seeking shall avail thee not, unless thou knowest the Mystery: that if that which thou seekest thou findest not within thee, thou shalt never find it without thee."
Kinda applies to my own situation as well. I don't rail too much at externals anymore when the angels and demons do battle in my head. If I can't find the peace and comfort and love and support within me, then it's no wonder that I get ridicule instead of support from those around me. Yet I'm human in that I expect some kind of support, need that support, and get so hurt when it doesn't appear.
I guess I haven't yet learned how to communicate my needs in an appropriate manner. And I also guess that I'm goddamned tired of being the one to initiate patience and understanding. Last night was remarkable for me in that I refused to apologize just to make the peace. It was a strained, strained night, but I'm so very tired of being let down.
"It'll all be over soon," said the priest, quoting God's response to the suffering of this lifetime. Too bad eternal anything is just as much of hell as brimstone and damnation.
I did have a wonderful dream of being special in a weird way and having no one left to share it with. What a strong message, eh?
Oh, and I read up on Time Magazine's articles about mapping consciousness and the human brain. Apparently scientists think they're getting closer to the point at which they can conclusively prove that the brain is the source of consciousness instead of merely its seat within the human body. How odd that quantum mechanics is rapidly approaching the point of convergence with the spiritual theories of planes of existence, energy, magic, and acausality while the neuroscientists think they've got a lead on eliminating the concept of soul.
That will never happen, mainly because science cannot -ever- conclusively establish causality, merely disprove something. And besides, the arguments which were put forth on why the soul needs to be removed as a concept were pretty pathetic and weak, philosophically speaking. "Because the last folks to die in celebrated means in order to attain a reward hereafter were the 9/11 Terrorists." Fuck off, Time writers. That's got to be the single weakest argument I've EVER heard. Just because there's a spiritual system which doesn't play well with modern sensibilities doesn't mean that the spiritual truths are to be so conveniently discarded. I don't care whether anyone actually believes like me or not, yet I'm quite the spiritual being.
So sad. Science is a tool for understanding, a system for learning, but it is not and never will be a voice of authority prescribing reality. Every single scientific achievement and advancement and all of its wonders must be conditionally accepted with the phrase "...as well as we can determine given the state of technology and our comprehension right now." Nothing so fluid as the establishment of fact by consensus can ever truly understand anything at its essential levels. And a fundamental principle of the universe is that those who understand a thing simply cannot describe that understanding, because mystery veils itself.
Well, I'm not trashing science. I believe it has its place, and I heartily approve of all of its advances, but when it starts trying to reach for the place of authority in declaring the nature of hidden things... well, let's just say that no one ever expects a scientist to be able to give comfort in the face of the overwhelming human condition. They can alleviate many conditions, but comfort is a spiritual matter. Even doctors learn that when the medicines and technologies fail, they must return to something described as 'bedside manner'.
"And all thy learning and seeking shall avail thee not, unless thou knowest the Mystery: that if that which thou seekest thou findest not within thee, thou shalt never find it without thee."
Kinda applies to my own situation as well. I don't rail too much at externals anymore when the angels and demons do battle in my head. If I can't find the peace and comfort and love and support within me, then it's no wonder that I get ridicule instead of support from those around me. Yet I'm human in that I expect some kind of support, need that support, and get so hurt when it doesn't appear.
I guess I haven't yet learned how to communicate my needs in an appropriate manner. And I also guess that I'm goddamned tired of being the one to initiate patience and understanding. Last night was remarkable for me in that I refused to apologize just to make the peace. It was a strained, strained night, but I'm so very tired of being let down.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Apropos, I suppose
I came in to work to find a fire drill waiting for me. I was here early, made some furious calls, and then ended up finding out when I spoke with the client that no, no need for the fire drill after all. An hour's panic and activating the phone tree, so to speak, for a false alarm.
Grrrrreeeeeaaaaaaat.
In my professional life I rely upon my reputation and good name in the industry. It's how I earn respect and trust. And it's not something I'm used to having to rely on, and I hate it when shit like this happens.
So, I continue to cast about me looking for one thing or another which will make it easier, somehow, or some kind of a reassurance that I'm on the right path. I need that. I can endure much when I know there's some kind of payoff at the end of it all, but it's so very hard for me to see the goal at all sometimes, especially coming off of a weekend like the hell I just lived through. So I'm still a little raw.
I went to one of my favorite websites online; a place I've been going to for years and years and years. Facade.com. Free Tarot readings, Bibliomancy, Stichomancy, Runes, I Ching, Biorhythms, etc. I asked the question, "Is this as good as it gets? Will life ever get any better or is this the most that I can ever hope for?" Nice and light, right? ;)
Well, the reading isn't done by live readers, so the most they can do is randomly select the cards based on the spread and give you the "book" interpretation. Sometimes it fits, and sometimes it doesn't... that's the reason you need a human reader for these sorts of things. But the random number algorhythms are sufficient for bypassing the human censor side of the brain, so the metaphysics are still relevant, and being a reader myself it allows me to do a reading for myself without the attendant baggage of skewing things. I just have to be sure to not 'read' the cards myself, usually, and to take the words as written.
Well, today there showed up something rather apropos.
Mwahahaaa! Well, the Hierophant is indeed quite the card of the present. Unfortunately, this is one of those transition times where I'm so very anxious and scared that I'm doing something wrong, or that I've chosen the wrong path, or that it will all come to nothing. I really do require emotional support to make it all better, and I do need reassurances. I just wish I could figure out how to get it from something other than random readings and a deck of virtual cards.
The interesting thing is that the card for the future was quite actually the card I typically choose as my own Significator... the Knight of Cups. Yeah, I'm a Leo so if you use astrological attributions I should technically be the Knight of Wands (or sometimes King) but Knight of Cups pretty well sums up the ideal me struggling to shine through.
I've got a solution, but it's not a step I want to take. Nor one I'll speak about here. Still, it's a good temporary means, and if I'm going to do it, I might as well go whole hog. In for a penny, in for a pound.
Grrrrreeeeeaaaaaaat.
In my professional life I rely upon my reputation and good name in the industry. It's how I earn respect and trust. And it's not something I'm used to having to rely on, and I hate it when shit like this happens.
So, I continue to cast about me looking for one thing or another which will make it easier, somehow, or some kind of a reassurance that I'm on the right path. I need that. I can endure much when I know there's some kind of payoff at the end of it all, but it's so very hard for me to see the goal at all sometimes, especially coming off of a weekend like the hell I just lived through. So I'm still a little raw.
I went to one of my favorite websites online; a place I've been going to for years and years and years. Facade.com. Free Tarot readings, Bibliomancy, Stichomancy, Runes, I Ching, Biorhythms, etc. I asked the question, "Is this as good as it gets? Will life ever get any better or is this the most that I can ever hope for?" Nice and light, right? ;)
Well, the reading isn't done by live readers, so the most they can do is randomly select the cards based on the spread and give you the "book" interpretation. Sometimes it fits, and sometimes it doesn't... that's the reason you need a human reader for these sorts of things. But the random number algorhythms are sufficient for bypassing the human censor side of the brain, so the metaphysics are still relevant, and being a reader myself it allows me to do a reading for myself without the attendant baggage of skewing things. I just have to be sure to not 'read' the cards myself, usually, and to take the words as written.
Well, today there showed up something rather apropos.
- The middle card represents a deciding element of the present. The Hierophant: Faith in tradition and the old school. A justified and ancient source of power. Being supportive, sympathetic and loyal. Receiving instructions, learning, guidance or inspiration. The ability to hear a higher or inner voice. May also indicate a religious ritual, such as a marriage or an initiation.
Mwahahaaa! Well, the Hierophant is indeed quite the card of the present. Unfortunately, this is one of those transition times where I'm so very anxious and scared that I'm doing something wrong, or that I've chosen the wrong path, or that it will all come to nothing. I really do require emotional support to make it all better, and I do need reassurances. I just wish I could figure out how to get it from something other than random readings and a deck of virtual cards.
The interesting thing is that the card for the future was quite actually the card I typically choose as my own Significator... the Knight of Cups. Yeah, I'm a Leo so if you use astrological attributions I should technically be the Knight of Wands (or sometimes King) but Knight of Cups pretty well sums up the ideal me struggling to shine through. I've got a solution, but it's not a step I want to take. Nor one I'll speak about here. Still, it's a good temporary means, and if I'm going to do it, I might as well go whole hog. In for a penny, in for a pound.
Helluva Weekend
This weekend was a bad weekend, in terms of mental health. Since I stopped working for TracyLocke as a Studio Manager and Web Producer to follow the new career path of Creative placement services, I've been without benefits, medication, or attention from professionals. I've been making do by managing the tough times.
I say 'managing' but really what it amounts to is knowing when the time is getting tough and withdrawing into myself or shutting down social obligations in order to not share the pain or hurt my social relationships or professional relationships by actions taken while in the throes of spiritual angst and agony. It's not so much management as it is simply 'enduring'.
I do have one balm in Gilead... I smoke pot. It feels weird saying this on an open blog but I content myself with the knowledge that there's only a handful of folks who care enough to be interested in reading all the way through the copious notes and rambling journal entries I post. Hidden in plain sight, so to speak. There are many worse vices to have accumulated, but at least marijuana gives me both pleasure and relief. Smoking it induces a light euphoria, settles my stomach (which lately has not been a happy creature from sheer emotional stress), and elevates my mood and demeanor from the thunderbolt rollercoaster plunge to a slow, ambling geniality. Even when I was on the medications full time for manic depression, I found myself not having the same success on the medications alone as I did on the meds and the pot. So if every artist has his illness or his vice, I've got both in one.
This weekend was a bad weekend, and one full of mental despair to the point that even doing things that normally give a sort of release, or induce pleasure, were ashen and devoid of meaning, fully laden down with the burden of simply existing. My art homework has gone completely derailed, even the simple act of filling up an 8.5"x11" paper with vertical lines drawn completely by hand.
I finished Season 3 of Babylon 5, and it was probably not the best choice of viewing for me in my frame of mind. It chronicles the descent and struggle against the despair brought forth by the Shadows, and ends the season with Sheridan going to Z'ha'dhum, the planet at the heart of the Shadow menace. There being seduced by false demons of his wife returned in physical form but with all sense of self completely destroyed through her bonding with their ships, trapped against his will but not completely without his foreknowledge, he crashes a ship into the Shadow citadel armed with intense thermonuclear bombs and makes one last, desperate bid for self by hurling himself off of the balcony of the highest ring of a hell similar to Dante's Inferno without the flames, and plunges down into the pit as the might of stars explode above him, wiping out the city itself. Z'ha'dhum indeed. Fade into darkness as the ambassador/resistance fighter cum Prophet, J'kar, provides voiceover of philosophical utterances of doom, despair, and the tiniest glimmer of potential hope ... End Season 3.
Not exactly the best time to be viewing this, in the midst of my own despair. The special effects didn't captivate, the storyline felt like rough sandpaper on my already raw emotions. But there was nothing else I could conceive of to do. Nothing else I found any ability to watch at all. At one point in the weekend Storm came over to me from his stint at the computer and found me sitting alone in the living room, no cats even, the TV off and the only sound being the faint hiss of the surround-sound speakers that you get when there's no audio being fed through but the receiver is still turned on.
Saturday was the worst. Sunday got better. Today? Too early to tell much, but I do feel myself somewhere back amid the midtones instead of thrashing in the charcoals. It's such a sobering thought, knowing that I'm ill with an incurable disease which will continue to grind at me for the rest of my life. No stop. Only pauses. If it were controllable by an effort of will, I would do so. I fully believe that it's only the fact that I know this is a disease which allows me some small detachment from the actual episodes, and my magical training of willpower which allows me to go to that inner place and weather the storm. Otherwise I think I would have been dashed to pieces on the rocks some time ago.
Knowing this to be an illness, I can conceive of it and deal with it as separate and external to myself. That's my path of sanity. There's times when I can't come out to play because there's just too much going on just beneath the surface, but the good news is that it's just a layer, and there's sanity on the inside. The real trouble comes when the bad times hit and you try to maintain social relations, and don't give yourself the gift of isolation and processing alone. That's when the manic depressives I know get in real trouble. Myself included.
Every single episode of social consequences in my life has happened because I didn't heed my inner weather patterns and tried to keep up appearances or maintain interactions. Faced with the choice of being perceived by others as periodically aloof and arrogant, or being forced to continually clean up and deal with the consequences of my impulsive actions during manic periods or known as some kind of drama queen during my despair, I think I'll choose to be perceived as aloof. Thankyouverymuch.
The real regret that I have during those periods however is that they waste time like nothing else. All the hours spent on World of Warcraft, Civilization, and SimCity don't begin to dent the hours wasted by being despaired or maniaed into relative immobility. In fact, many of those hours on the computer game time sinks are directly related to the approaches to despair. Even though there was absolutely no pleasure in the games at all this weekend, I played two complete games of Civilization IV, built one new city in SimCity, and seriously toyed with the idea of getting Burning Crusade using a gift card that we had.
The other thing which was bad this weekend was the fact that we have no cash to speak of, and no food in the house of consequence. Ramen, Lipton Noodles, and spaghetti were the bill of fare. Not from a lack of planning, but just sheer lack of resources. Well, that and the fact that the electricity turned off and we overpaid when we had it turned back on. Folks living on the edge like us figure out that when they shut you off you don't usually have to pay the full bill, just a portion of the overdue amounts, and we paid off the balance in full. While this was good in one sense, it hit us at a time when one series of checks coming in have somehow gone astray in their timing for payouts because Storm's old employers screwed up big time on paperwork. And we suffered for it.
I'm fairly certain that this weekend would not have been so dismal had I been able to eat better. Lack of proper nutrition contributes greatly to mood swings, I think. Such was my blindsight stupidity that I forgot I had several packets of Herbalife multivitamins still up in my cupboard... I should have at least taken them. And protein and vitamin shake mix too, from Herbalife. Damn. Well, done is done, but I'll keep those in mind in case something happens like that in the future again. Now we just have to get through this week and we'll be back on some kind of regular paycheck schedule.
For me, at least, I'm not bottling all off this up anymore. I told Storm this weekend exactly what was going on, and the focus of my preoccupations. It pained him to hear it, but better to share the pain and the burden than try to be the superman who is uber-reliable and can totally handle anything. I don't have the resources and wherewithal to be a continual shield around our family anymore. I'm sure I no longer have the resources simply because I was stupid enough to try in the first place.
I continue to wrestle with my decision to leap from safety into the void of my own. Jumping to Alden from TL meant leaving behind a sure paycheck with benefits and a life routine that, while boring, was steady and allowed other things to be built on top of it. And I left for the promise of money beyond my imagining that could be gotten by working hard and applying myself at the task of corporate recruiting. At least at Alden, they continually waved the promise of a big paycheck around in front of us as some kind of motivating force.
That's when I realized that I'm not motivated by the pursuit of money itself. I'm firm enough in my grasp on reality to know its importance, and to be able to see how miserable an existence it is when the cost of living is so very high and the cash flow is not there. I'm no fool, I live and breathe and eat in this world, not the dreams in my head. But it's not my motivating force. Sure, I would love the richness of a life lived with a high cash flow, and yes, attaining that would liberate me from a number of concerns and reduce a significant portion of the stress in my life. But money as a goal in and of itself... not so much. I keep hearing Billy Joel's line in my head "And if you can't drive with a broken back/at least you can polish the fenders".
However, it's painful to me that my foray into the recruiting world so quickly came to a choice between the pursuit of money and the need for work/life balance. I'm very afraid now, as I begin to walk down the art world path again, of seeing art in any way as a kind of a way to ever make a living. I know it can become so, but I know as well that it is far too premature to take that viewpoint or dare to hope that I will be lucky enough or persistent enough to get there. I'm already seeing the trouble I'm having in being persistent with my current career path... they say that it takes a full year of effort to get yourself to the point where you can really make a decent living being a recruiter. I'm seeing the wisdom and reality of that statement myself. and Oh, how stressful is this time between.
That's the rub, really. I've switched careers after 10 years. 35 seems to be the right time to do it. And now there's all sorts of beginner's strife to put up with once again. I'm making placements, and I'm "earning" money, but I'm not yet seeing payouts or commissions because the billing cycle for Creative recruiting is soooo long term. For example... on Friday one of my candidates had a review for possible conversion to full time status. If that happens, we the company earn a payout percentage of her starting salary offer. Of that percentage of money, I personally earn a commission. Straightforward, right? But we the company give a guarantee that the new employee will be fine for 90 days from date of hire. That means that at the very -earliest- I will see any of that money which I'd be entitled to if they had hired her -right now- would be the beginning of May.
Yeah. That's a tough time to have to wait, knowing that at any point in the process my candidate could "fall off", get fired, quit, or not fulfill her 90 day guarantee. And then, realistically, just because after 90 days the bill becomes due in full doesn't mean that the company will pay out exactly on the due date. Quite the opposite. In all realistic expectations, I'm not going to see any money for six months, unless my boss decides to pay out once the bill becomes due, not paid. She's said she would once the guarantee period is done, but there's a while to go and we don't yet know of any firm offers.
So when folks complain about recruiter fees, they need to take a real close look at how long it takes to pay out, the kinds of risks we have involved, and realize that it's going to take longer than a full year for me to begin to see any of the "money money money" that some recruiting firms like to dance in front of you.
The silver lining in all of this is that once you make it past your first year and start racking up the placements, yes, indeed, for those with the talent and the gift needed to make it in this industry, you most certainly can earn quite a lot of a money. But it's never fully under your control, and in the end it becomes a form of slavery in and of itself. If you walk away for something else, you lose the money still pending. You fall short of actually seeing the return on your investment of time and anguish.
So that's where I am now... in it for the long haul and hoping beyond all hope that the economy turns around and the demand for Creatives picks up tremendously. Because I see all of the hopeful job seekers, and I see some excellent talent which is going to waste because of the vagaries of the Creative hiring process. I also heard tell that TracyLocke HR folks spoke to a team of Creatives after the last round of layoffs and said "If you're thinking about jumping off, now is the time to do so since Q1 is the best time to get hired." I've got news for everyone... traditionally, yes, this would be a good time to jump, but I'm hip deep in the hiring process and this year there are far more companies handling layoffs than they are staffing up.
Damn. All I want in life is for some help with the burden of living. I'm trying and doing everything that I'm supposed to do which will lead to success, but I begin to feel as though I'm working harder, not smarter, and I'm boggled by the fact that I simply cannot figure out how to make my efforts smarter. At all. I'm 2 steps away from saying fuck it all and going back to school for Law.
I say 'managing' but really what it amounts to is knowing when the time is getting tough and withdrawing into myself or shutting down social obligations in order to not share the pain or hurt my social relationships or professional relationships by actions taken while in the throes of spiritual angst and agony. It's not so much management as it is simply 'enduring'.
Balm in Gilead
I do have one balm in Gilead... I smoke pot. It feels weird saying this on an open blog but I content myself with the knowledge that there's only a handful of folks who care enough to be interested in reading all the way through the copious notes and rambling journal entries I post. Hidden in plain sight, so to speak. There are many worse vices to have accumulated, but at least marijuana gives me both pleasure and relief. Smoking it induces a light euphoria, settles my stomach (which lately has not been a happy creature from sheer emotional stress), and elevates my mood and demeanor from the thunderbolt rollercoaster plunge to a slow, ambling geniality. Even when I was on the medications full time for manic depression, I found myself not having the same success on the medications alone as I did on the meds and the pot. So if every artist has his illness or his vice, I've got both in one.
This weekend was a bad weekend, and one full of mental despair to the point that even doing things that normally give a sort of release, or induce pleasure, were ashen and devoid of meaning, fully laden down with the burden of simply existing. My art homework has gone completely derailed, even the simple act of filling up an 8.5"x11" paper with vertical lines drawn completely by hand.
Babylon 5 Season 3 Done
I finished Season 3 of Babylon 5, and it was probably not the best choice of viewing for me in my frame of mind. It chronicles the descent and struggle against the despair brought forth by the Shadows, and ends the season with Sheridan going to Z'ha'dhum, the planet at the heart of the Shadow menace. There being seduced by false demons of his wife returned in physical form but with all sense of self completely destroyed through her bonding with their ships, trapped against his will but not completely without his foreknowledge, he crashes a ship into the Shadow citadel armed with intense thermonuclear bombs and makes one last, desperate bid for self by hurling himself off of the balcony of the highest ring of a hell similar to Dante's Inferno without the flames, and plunges down into the pit as the might of stars explode above him, wiping out the city itself. Z'ha'dhum indeed. Fade into darkness as the ambassador/resistance fighter cum Prophet, J'kar, provides voiceover of philosophical utterances of doom, despair, and the tiniest glimmer of potential hope ... End Season 3.
Not exactly the best time to be viewing this, in the midst of my own despair. The special effects didn't captivate, the storyline felt like rough sandpaper on my already raw emotions. But there was nothing else I could conceive of to do. Nothing else I found any ability to watch at all. At one point in the weekend Storm came over to me from his stint at the computer and found me sitting alone in the living room, no cats even, the TV off and the only sound being the faint hiss of the surround-sound speakers that you get when there's no audio being fed through but the receiver is still turned on.
Rollercoaster Ride
Saturday was the worst. Sunday got better. Today? Too early to tell much, but I do feel myself somewhere back amid the midtones instead of thrashing in the charcoals. It's such a sobering thought, knowing that I'm ill with an incurable disease which will continue to grind at me for the rest of my life. No stop. Only pauses. If it were controllable by an effort of will, I would do so. I fully believe that it's only the fact that I know this is a disease which allows me some small detachment from the actual episodes, and my magical training of willpower which allows me to go to that inner place and weather the storm. Otherwise I think I would have been dashed to pieces on the rocks some time ago.
Knowing this to be an illness, I can conceive of it and deal with it as separate and external to myself. That's my path of sanity. There's times when I can't come out to play because there's just too much going on just beneath the surface, but the good news is that it's just a layer, and there's sanity on the inside. The real trouble comes when the bad times hit and you try to maintain social relations, and don't give yourself the gift of isolation and processing alone. That's when the manic depressives I know get in real trouble. Myself included.
Every single episode of social consequences in my life has happened because I didn't heed my inner weather patterns and tried to keep up appearances or maintain interactions. Faced with the choice of being perceived by others as periodically aloof and arrogant, or being forced to continually clean up and deal with the consequences of my impulsive actions during manic periods or known as some kind of drama queen during my despair, I think I'll choose to be perceived as aloof. Thankyouverymuch.
Time Wasting
The real regret that I have during those periods however is that they waste time like nothing else. All the hours spent on World of Warcraft, Civilization, and SimCity don't begin to dent the hours wasted by being despaired or maniaed into relative immobility. In fact, many of those hours on the computer game time sinks are directly related to the approaches to despair. Even though there was absolutely no pleasure in the games at all this weekend, I played two complete games of Civilization IV, built one new city in SimCity, and seriously toyed with the idea of getting Burning Crusade using a gift card that we had.
The other thing which was bad this weekend was the fact that we have no cash to speak of, and no food in the house of consequence. Ramen, Lipton Noodles, and spaghetti were the bill of fare. Not from a lack of planning, but just sheer lack of resources. Well, that and the fact that the electricity turned off and we overpaid when we had it turned back on. Folks living on the edge like us figure out that when they shut you off you don't usually have to pay the full bill, just a portion of the overdue amounts, and we paid off the balance in full. While this was good in one sense, it hit us at a time when one series of checks coming in have somehow gone astray in their timing for payouts because Storm's old employers screwed up big time on paperwork. And we suffered for it.
I'm fairly certain that this weekend would not have been so dismal had I been able to eat better. Lack of proper nutrition contributes greatly to mood swings, I think. Such was my blindsight stupidity that I forgot I had several packets of Herbalife multivitamins still up in my cupboard... I should have at least taken them. And protein and vitamin shake mix too, from Herbalife. Damn. Well, done is done, but I'll keep those in mind in case something happens like that in the future again. Now we just have to get through this week and we'll be back on some kind of regular paycheck schedule.
Some progress, at least
For me, at least, I'm not bottling all off this up anymore. I told Storm this weekend exactly what was going on, and the focus of my preoccupations. It pained him to hear it, but better to share the pain and the burden than try to be the superman who is uber-reliable and can totally handle anything. I don't have the resources and wherewithal to be a continual shield around our family anymore. I'm sure I no longer have the resources simply because I was stupid enough to try in the first place.
I continue to wrestle with my decision to leap from safety into the void of my own. Jumping to Alden from TL meant leaving behind a sure paycheck with benefits and a life routine that, while boring, was steady and allowed other things to be built on top of it. And I left for the promise of money beyond my imagining that could be gotten by working hard and applying myself at the task of corporate recruiting. At least at Alden, they continually waved the promise of a big paycheck around in front of us as some kind of motivating force.
Money, Motivation, Career Changes & Despair
That's when I realized that I'm not motivated by the pursuit of money itself. I'm firm enough in my grasp on reality to know its importance, and to be able to see how miserable an existence it is when the cost of living is so very high and the cash flow is not there. I'm no fool, I live and breathe and eat in this world, not the dreams in my head. But it's not my motivating force. Sure, I would love the richness of a life lived with a high cash flow, and yes, attaining that would liberate me from a number of concerns and reduce a significant portion of the stress in my life. But money as a goal in and of itself... not so much. I keep hearing Billy Joel's line in my head "And if you can't drive with a broken back/at least you can polish the fenders".
However, it's painful to me that my foray into the recruiting world so quickly came to a choice between the pursuit of money and the need for work/life balance. I'm very afraid now, as I begin to walk down the art world path again, of seeing art in any way as a kind of a way to ever make a living. I know it can become so, but I know as well that it is far too premature to take that viewpoint or dare to hope that I will be lucky enough or persistent enough to get there. I'm already seeing the trouble I'm having in being persistent with my current career path... they say that it takes a full year of effort to get yourself to the point where you can really make a decent living being a recruiter. I'm seeing the wisdom and reality of that statement myself. and Oh, how stressful is this time between.
That's the rub, really. I've switched careers after 10 years. 35 seems to be the right time to do it. And now there's all sorts of beginner's strife to put up with once again. I'm making placements, and I'm "earning" money, but I'm not yet seeing payouts or commissions because the billing cycle for Creative recruiting is soooo long term. For example... on Friday one of my candidates had a review for possible conversion to full time status. If that happens, we the company earn a payout percentage of her starting salary offer. Of that percentage of money, I personally earn a commission. Straightforward, right? But we the company give a guarantee that the new employee will be fine for 90 days from date of hire. That means that at the very -earliest- I will see any of that money which I'd be entitled to if they had hired her -right now- would be the beginning of May.
Yeah. That's a tough time to have to wait, knowing that at any point in the process my candidate could "fall off", get fired, quit, or not fulfill her 90 day guarantee. And then, realistically, just because after 90 days the bill becomes due in full doesn't mean that the company will pay out exactly on the due date. Quite the opposite. In all realistic expectations, I'm not going to see any money for six months, unless my boss decides to pay out once the bill becomes due, not paid. She's said she would once the guarantee period is done, but there's a while to go and we don't yet know of any firm offers.
So when folks complain about recruiter fees, they need to take a real close look at how long it takes to pay out, the kinds of risks we have involved, and realize that it's going to take longer than a full year for me to begin to see any of the "money money money" that some recruiting firms like to dance in front of you.
Hope ahead? Hopefully.
The silver lining in all of this is that once you make it past your first year and start racking up the placements, yes, indeed, for those with the talent and the gift needed to make it in this industry, you most certainly can earn quite a lot of a money. But it's never fully under your control, and in the end it becomes a form of slavery in and of itself. If you walk away for something else, you lose the money still pending. You fall short of actually seeing the return on your investment of time and anguish.
So that's where I am now... in it for the long haul and hoping beyond all hope that the economy turns around and the demand for Creatives picks up tremendously. Because I see all of the hopeful job seekers, and I see some excellent talent which is going to waste because of the vagaries of the Creative hiring process. I also heard tell that TracyLocke HR folks spoke to a team of Creatives after the last round of layoffs and said "If you're thinking about jumping off, now is the time to do so since Q1 is the best time to get hired." I've got news for everyone... traditionally, yes, this would be a good time to jump, but I'm hip deep in the hiring process and this year there are far more companies handling layoffs than they are staffing up.
Damn. All I want in life is for some help with the burden of living. I'm trying and doing everything that I'm supposed to do which will lead to success, but I begin to feel as though I'm working harder, not smarter, and I'm boggled by the fact that I simply cannot figure out how to make my efforts smarter. At all. I'm 2 steps away from saying fuck it all and going back to school for Law.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Dear Theo notes
More notes.
The reading begins to get tough for me because it's so similar in weird ways to my own patterns of thinking. VanGogh must have been bipolar, as I am. I'm fighting against the urge to skip ahead and read the last letter to get a gauge of the depths of the descent into madness and despair which might lie ahead just because I don't know if I can handle it.
I hear the optimism and the sheer force of will, pushing ahead and, just before age 30, striving so very hard to be true to two contradictory forces at the same time. On the one hand Van Gogh was struggling to do everything that was expected of him. He lived a good portion of his life by the expectations of others.
At cross purposes to this, however, was the drive to remain true to his own inner vision, his internal quest.
Oy. Resonates kinda deep. Especially since this afternoon was a depressed afternoon for me, when I was struggling with the question of "What am I doing wrong, and why do I struggle so very hard just to be this poor?" Egads, what a shock to settle in for some reading and find that -exact- question reflected in the pages from Van Gogh's letters to his brother Theo from 1881.
I know that I have made several different choices in my life so I'm not reading this as some kind of soothsayer's path before me, but it's still a phenomenal cautionary tale. In another time and place, I would not be far off from dear Vincent's plight. Although I have to admit that I don't obsess about painting and drawing to the same level he did.
And that's a good thing.
Still, hearing how he wore out his welcome from the painter/mentor Mauve and the fact that he used turns of phrase which I've written myself, often in letters to my own brother Tom... this continues to be a difficult read because it is so exceedingly eerie in its similarities across time and space from then to now. Perhaps it's just that I'm bipolar, or perhaps there's something to the notion of being an artist which brings this kind of mind set about. I don't know. I haven't studied the daybooks and biographies of artists yet, but I'm looking forward to those continued studies.
I just wish I could absorb it all faster, because with how similar the phraseology is and the bipolar outlook and the sheer desperation to somehow find that point at which the inner vision and the outer expectations meet in a glorious combination of economic support... and knowing as I do with the gift of hindsight that Van Gogh never finds it in his lifetime... reading this begins to get exhausting because it triggers intense sympathy from me, and I really don't want to prolong the slow spiralling descent into another man's madness. I've got to work so hard to prevent that from happening to me with my own life.
Van Gogh is definitely a bohemian ahead of the bohemian revolution. And I'm some kind of reluctant bohemian of the postmodern sort, who can point to their life and say "I work very hard to be this poor," with some kind of self-bemused ironic appreciation underlaid with the faintest stirrings of despair.
Yeah, reading on, but struggling between the urge to skim and the need to bear witness to the tortured existence of an unrecognized Master as he passed through this lifetime.
And I hear the phrase attributed to God's response when mortals cry out in suffering, "It'll all be over soon."
If I do end up skimming, forgive me, but since I'm living a modern variation on this kind of hell, I don't know if I have the heart to endure the burden of another... even one long gone.
Reading on.
The reading begins to get tough for me because it's so similar in weird ways to my own patterns of thinking. VanGogh must have been bipolar, as I am. I'm fighting against the urge to skip ahead and read the last letter to get a gauge of the depths of the descent into madness and despair which might lie ahead just because I don't know if I can handle it.
I hear the optimism and the sheer force of will, pushing ahead and, just before age 30, striving so very hard to be true to two contradictory forces at the same time. On the one hand Van Gogh was struggling to do everything that was expected of him. He lived a good portion of his life by the expectations of others.
At cross purposes to this, however, was the drive to remain true to his own inner vision, his internal quest.
Oy. Resonates kinda deep. Especially since this afternoon was a depressed afternoon for me, when I was struggling with the question of "What am I doing wrong, and why do I struggle so very hard just to be this poor?" Egads, what a shock to settle in for some reading and find that -exact- question reflected in the pages from Van Gogh's letters to his brother Theo from 1881.
I know that I have made several different choices in my life so I'm not reading this as some kind of soothsayer's path before me, but it's still a phenomenal cautionary tale. In another time and place, I would not be far off from dear Vincent's plight. Although I have to admit that I don't obsess about painting and drawing to the same level he did.
And that's a good thing.
Still, hearing how he wore out his welcome from the painter/mentor Mauve and the fact that he used turns of phrase which I've written myself, often in letters to my own brother Tom... this continues to be a difficult read because it is so exceedingly eerie in its similarities across time and space from then to now. Perhaps it's just that I'm bipolar, or perhaps there's something to the notion of being an artist which brings this kind of mind set about. I don't know. I haven't studied the daybooks and biographies of artists yet, but I'm looking forward to those continued studies.
I just wish I could absorb it all faster, because with how similar the phraseology is and the bipolar outlook and the sheer desperation to somehow find that point at which the inner vision and the outer expectations meet in a glorious combination of economic support... and knowing as I do with the gift of hindsight that Van Gogh never finds it in his lifetime... reading this begins to get exhausting because it triggers intense sympathy from me, and I really don't want to prolong the slow spiralling descent into another man's madness. I've got to work so hard to prevent that from happening to me with my own life.
Van Gogh is definitely a bohemian ahead of the bohemian revolution. And I'm some kind of reluctant bohemian of the postmodern sort, who can point to their life and say "I work very hard to be this poor," with some kind of self-bemused ironic appreciation underlaid with the faintest stirrings of despair.
Yeah, reading on, but struggling between the urge to skim and the need to bear witness to the tortured existence of an unrecognized Master as he passed through this lifetime.
And I hear the phrase attributed to God's response when mortals cry out in suffering, "It'll all be over soon."
If I do end up skimming, forgive me, but since I'm living a modern variation on this kind of hell, I don't know if I have the heart to endure the burden of another... even one long gone.
Reading on.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Jan 19, 2007
Just writing to get in the habit of daily check ins. I spent some time this afternoon daydreaming about a production of CHESS after emailing my brother, Tom. So many things to do and not enough money, connections, or time to do them all. Someday.
I've started to get into the first of Van Gogh's disconnections with reality in Dear Theo. It's an interesting thing to see where he first steps aside and starts using e-logic for his reasoning. His love for "K", not returned and discouraged by everyone involved because he is an adult and has no means to really support himself or a family on the one side, and Van Gogh's personal surety that K can come to love him and that as a draughtsman he can earn money by selling pictures to tourists, essentially. In a way he is idealizing his attachment and reading it as the pure ideal instead of the worldly manifestation. Interesting. I've seen this happen once before in my own life's experience... an obsession with an ideal upon which rests an ego's self image. The results are not pretty in the best of times, but VanGogh is not a social creature by nature and doesn't have a coterie of friends to step in and help talk the boy straight.
Not that he'd necessarily listen -- he denies that his father's attempts to do so are motivated by anything but the shallowest of reasons.
Well, sadly this is a story whose ending is already known and which already ends badly. It's not the sort of story I like to read myself, where the ending is known, but like TITANIC recently (10 years ago already?!?!) there's often some great beauty which is only possible in the face of overwhelming sorrow or against the backlight of the chaotic events of the time. That the human spirit pays no mind to the overwhelming odds is at once horribly frustrating and at the same time completely endearing and redeeming of the state of humanity.
Reading on.
I'm so happy to finally be getting a weekend. Last weekend was my first apprenticeship with Dave, which was enriching and rewarding and totally overwhelming in a subtle and good way that comes with stretching a brain full to capacity once again. The weekend before that was some other distraction which happened, though I'm not remembering it clearly, and the one prior to that was the holiday and a visit from distant friends which, while entertaining and delightful, also took up a certain amount of emotional reserves.
How strange that I'm becoming a creature of such habit that the disruption of my weekly routine has long term ripples in my life. Sometimes the sacrifices are necessary to make and often they result in great positives, but there's always the feeling of relief which can accompany the return to the time off and away.
Besides, if you have to have your patterns of life and sanity disrupted, better it be for friends and learning. It's the chores and service unwillingly granted which truly damages the soul.
I think it's high time the world switched over to a 4 day workweek spread across a 5 day workweek. The office is open from M-F, but you're only expected to be there 4 days with a floating day off assigned each week, or fixed permanently. Maybe it's just the bipolar part of me speaking, but five days at a clip can be exhausting in different ways. Or else maybe my inner artist is waking up and beginning to express resentment at all the time devoted to things in life which might fill the wallet but not the heart or soul.
Well, I'd have to sign up for Tuesday - Friday. Let the others handle the mundania of starting off the week. Give me the extra day off at home after the weekend to recover and mentally prepare for dealing with the stress that comes from work, instead of Work.
Yes, I want more time. No, it's not just to laze about. Hell, I'm looking forward to the day when I can say that the job I get up in the morning to report to consists of nothing but my own projects, visions, dreams, and goals, and not much in the way of externally imposed priorities or deadlines.
Dreaming on. :)
I've started to get into the first of Van Gogh's disconnections with reality in Dear Theo. It's an interesting thing to see where he first steps aside and starts using e-logic for his reasoning. His love for "K", not returned and discouraged by everyone involved because he is an adult and has no means to really support himself or a family on the one side, and Van Gogh's personal surety that K can come to love him and that as a draughtsman he can earn money by selling pictures to tourists, essentially. In a way he is idealizing his attachment and reading it as the pure ideal instead of the worldly manifestation. Interesting. I've seen this happen once before in my own life's experience... an obsession with an ideal upon which rests an ego's self image. The results are not pretty in the best of times, but VanGogh is not a social creature by nature and doesn't have a coterie of friends to step in and help talk the boy straight.
Not that he'd necessarily listen -- he denies that his father's attempts to do so are motivated by anything but the shallowest of reasons.
Well, sadly this is a story whose ending is already known and which already ends badly. It's not the sort of story I like to read myself, where the ending is known, but like TITANIC recently (10 years ago already?!?!) there's often some great beauty which is only possible in the face of overwhelming sorrow or against the backlight of the chaotic events of the time. That the human spirit pays no mind to the overwhelming odds is at once horribly frustrating and at the same time completely endearing and redeeming of the state of humanity.
Reading on.
A Weekend
I'm so happy to finally be getting a weekend. Last weekend was my first apprenticeship with Dave, which was enriching and rewarding and totally overwhelming in a subtle and good way that comes with stretching a brain full to capacity once again. The weekend before that was some other distraction which happened, though I'm not remembering it clearly, and the one prior to that was the holiday and a visit from distant friends which, while entertaining and delightful, also took up a certain amount of emotional reserves.
How strange that I'm becoming a creature of such habit that the disruption of my weekly routine has long term ripples in my life. Sometimes the sacrifices are necessary to make and often they result in great positives, but there's always the feeling of relief which can accompany the return to the time off and away.
Besides, if you have to have your patterns of life and sanity disrupted, better it be for friends and learning. It's the chores and service unwillingly granted which truly damages the soul.
I think it's high time the world switched over to a 4 day workweek spread across a 5 day workweek. The office is open from M-F, but you're only expected to be there 4 days with a floating day off assigned each week, or fixed permanently. Maybe it's just the bipolar part of me speaking, but five days at a clip can be exhausting in different ways. Or else maybe my inner artist is waking up and beginning to express resentment at all the time devoted to things in life which might fill the wallet but not the heart or soul.
Well, I'd have to sign up for Tuesday - Friday. Let the others handle the mundania of starting off the week. Give me the extra day off at home after the weekend to recover and mentally prepare for dealing with the stress that comes from work, instead of Work.
Yes, I want more time. No, it's not just to laze about. Hell, I'm looking forward to the day when I can say that the job I get up in the morning to report to consists of nothing but my own projects, visions, dreams, and goals, and not much in the way of externally imposed priorities or deadlines.
Dreaming on. :)
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Morning, 1/18/07 Th
Watched Babylon 5 Season 3 a bit last night. Getting into the Shadow Wars, the episodes are beginning to have the intensity which made Bab5 famous, along with the plot arc which pulled upon seemingly minor setups from Season 1 and 2 which at the time appeared innocuous enough.
Interestingly enough what my brain is doing in the background while watching Bab 5 is working up a casting list for a movie version of Robert Jordan's WHEEL OF TIME series. It's something I do from time to time as a creative exercise. Assuming I were in a Peter Jackson kind of situation, famous enough and with enough money to begin to make Jordan's monumental work into a series of films, who would I want to play each role? I had a somewhat bizarre thought that perhaps Claudia Christian who played Susan Ivanova might make a good Nynaeve, who was always a problematic role to be filled because she needed to be a study in contrasting elements and yet not feel forced. Tough as nails, emotionally fragile, yet overwhelmingly in control even as the chaos mounts around her.
I'm thinking Judi Dench for Amys, as well. And the actress who played Isolde and in the Dr. Who "Girl in the Fireplace" episode as Elayne. Ahh, it's a fun exercise because it shows how I interpret each character in terms of appearance as well as attitude. The guy who played Wormtongue in LotR could do a very decent Masema. I should come up with a casting list.
Continuing to read Dear Theo I quickly hit upon the first warning sign in Van Gogh. He falls in love with his cousin "K" who rejects him, and all of his family also tells him "It's not gonna happen, Vinny," but his psyche can't process the fact that love is denied. In fact, he takes on the typical throes of delusion that younger wills often fall victim to and sees the denial as an encouragement, something that is challenging not only himself and his ego but also challenging LOVE as a kind of universal concept.
Van Gogh lives in terms of ideals, and the ecstasy of the spirit means that simple emotions which most folks can experience and not get totally swept away by happen on a larger magnitude. I'm a bit familiar with this both from my own overdramatic youth and from the growing pains of those who are actually developmentally 'off' that I've associated with in my past. One fraternity brother obsessed so completely over one of our mutual friends who made the mistake of being beautiful, unattainable to him, and completely -nice-, that when she would enter a room at a party we would all actually count the seconds before our other friend would find his way into the room and begin pestering through proximity.
We never got above 10 seconds, and even then most of the time it was 5. Once the ego declared that no, this girl really did love him and there still was the smallest chance, it became an exercise in futility. Any evidence to the contrary was handled by emotional logic, or e-logic, which filters reality through the emotional filter and removes any ability to acknowledge evidence to the contrary of the obsession. Since reality doesn't support the behaviors based on the obsession, it becomes a dangerous ticking time bomb. I'd imagine that serial killers or most crimes of passion occur because of the crossed wires of obsession at this intense emotional level. Since I'm only vaguely acquainted with the generalities of Van Gogh's history, I know that his rage at being thwarted by reality turns inwards and begins to destroy him from the inside, but had his temperament been less gentle history might have remembered Vincent for being a very different kind of creature who evoked horror and not sympathy.
Regardless, this is a very good read. He thinks big thoughts and the lens of his artistic talent amplifies everything around him. I don't question that he isolates himself from others, really, except from a long distance relationship with his brother Theo. When a Sensitive is in development, she needs to get away from the flood of emotional backwash and ambient static which normal interpersonal relationships entails.
Reading on.
In the pagan community usually the term 'Sensitive' is assumed to mean someone who is moderately psychic, or has latent abilities not yet developed. I use it in something of a broader term which isn't meant to specify just what someone is Sensitive toward. It could be color, perception, spirits, the future, food, emotions, what have you. I use it more in the terms of Joseph Campbell describing the likely candidates for shamanic training among primitives.
Sensitives are those humans who enter this life and have a more finely honed or refined ability to perceive, process, or respond to external or internal stimuli than other humans. It's not a value statement, it's more a statement of the precision of their ability to measure or interact with various things. For example, a seismograph is very sensitive to certain geological vibrations and motions which most humans can't feel or notice until they become full blown earth tremors or earthquakes. As a tool, it's sensitive to those vibrations which most other tools are not. As a result, the needle on a seismograph flutters when a pen on a page would be still.
Different humans perceive, process, or respond differently to the same stimuli. A sniper has a highly developed hand/eye coordination and ability to target. They're Sensitives in a different sort of way, and receive the training needed to make the most of their ability.
A Sensitive is likely to come at odds with the rest of us eventually as they begin to realize that, for some reason or another, folks around them are not responding to the same things they are. Or everyone else is ignoring what is setting them off and apparently refusing to see. Until the Sensitive realizes that their factory default is set differently than everyone else, or most everyone else, it can be extremely frustrating. If you've got access to someone else who understands what's going on, they can mentor you. If not... you're on your own to figure out how to deal with it.
First reaction of a Sensitive tends to be a dramatic confrontation with others. For those who have their gifts since childhood, this is a turbulent period in their early development. For those who come into their gifts later, this can be obsession, depression, megalomania, mania, argumentation, and sheer stubborn willfulness. Then when it becomes clear that it's an uphill battle, there's typically a self-imposed period of isolation or distacing from the rest of the world or community. This gives the space required to begin to come to grips with the Sensitivity.
Psychology will often diagnose Sensitives as being part of a problem, or from the symptoms they manifest instead of seeing the cure. And sometimes modern psychology has good tools to allow for a more peaceful integration of the Sensitive into community. Certain meds can allow for the continued development of social maturity without necessarily deadening or dulling the sensitivity. Some sensitivities are so finely precise and prone to being set off that a temporary dulling is actually desirable, to give the person a period of peace. Luckily, the kinds of meds which remove or damage the sensitivity completely don't seem to be used much anymore since they also severely impaired normal functioning as well... like Thorazine, for example.
I remain confident that contemporary psychological thought will eventually arrive at a sort of 'experiential therapy course' which will borrow heavily from shamanic training and old solutions, coupled with light uses of meds and a practice of pairing highly functioning sensitives with newly emerging sensitives to allow for transmission of wisdom and coping strategies to help shorten the period of adjustment.
Being Sensitive implies a destiny, a fate, a gift, or a dharma as 'Guru' Dave would put it. The process of adjustment consumes decades sometimes, but once it's done the Sensitive is finally empowered, individualized, and armed with coping techniques which allow the actual 'gift' or 'work' to begin. Sensitives take great pains from the rest of humanity to acculturate and socialize, but once functional levels of acculturation and socialization, and sheer outright coping, are attained then the gifts that pour forth from the Sensitive according to her own areas of sensitivity are often seen as Gifted, Genius, or Talented at the very least. To find Van Gogh the painter at the bottom of Van Gogh the tortured soul, is very much not surprising.
***
Slight change of subject. I had thought that my general feelings of malaise and gastrointestinal gymnastics of the last few days were the results of overindulgences in a party on Monday night. However, I found out to my horror that the turkey cold cuts from Stop & Shop had turned in our fridge just two days after purchase and I was actually undergoing a mild case of food poisoning. Lovely.
I'm a bit upset at Stop & Shop, a subsidiary of Giant Foods, if I recall correctly. They put in a store recently in the middle of the Urban Blight Sprawl of Bridgeport, and they seem to have made decisions of what to stock it with based upon racial and economic profiling. Ground beef cannot be found there any leaner than 85% in any quantities more than a pound, and the price point is significantly higher for the leaner beef than it is at a nearby Stop & Shop in an affluent neighborhood. And I've noticed several times that the Boars Head cold cuts were slightly drier and older in the new ghetto Stop & Shop, but for the same price.
Sad, really. This isn't a glorified garbage can with packaging, it's a grocery store. Shame on Stop & Shop for attempting to pawn off substandard products just because the local neighborhoods have a higher concentration of poverty than elsewhere. Did they think we wouldn't notice? Maybe so. And that's an even sadder statement than simply passing less-than-optimal quality along to customers in the first place.
Life is an eye-opening experience as a white man in a predominantly ethnic minority neighborhood. I'm sure the food is safe, but I question the geographic distribution of the "sub-optimal" foodstuffs... why put all of it here, instead of distributing it evenly among the rest of the chain's many stores nearby?
Hmm... Well, I had originally intended these last few paragraphs to be a Satire, but I suppose my clunky lack of comedy or style means I have to try harder to master that witty comedic form. Oh well. Here's my initial attempt. ;) Good thing for me satire cannot be considered slander or libellous. Good thing for me as well that my satirical attempt above doesn't need to be good to be considered an attempt at satire.
Interestingly enough what my brain is doing in the background while watching Bab 5 is working up a casting list for a movie version of Robert Jordan's WHEEL OF TIME series. It's something I do from time to time as a creative exercise. Assuming I were in a Peter Jackson kind of situation, famous enough and with enough money to begin to make Jordan's monumental work into a series of films, who would I want to play each role? I had a somewhat bizarre thought that perhaps Claudia Christian who played Susan Ivanova might make a good Nynaeve, who was always a problematic role to be filled because she needed to be a study in contrasting elements and yet not feel forced. Tough as nails, emotionally fragile, yet overwhelmingly in control even as the chaos mounts around her.
I'm thinking Judi Dench for Amys, as well. And the actress who played Isolde and in the Dr. Who "Girl in the Fireplace" episode as Elayne. Ahh, it's a fun exercise because it shows how I interpret each character in terms of appearance as well as attitude. The guy who played Wormtongue in LotR could do a very decent Masema. I should come up with a casting list.
Dear Theo notes
Continuing to read Dear Theo I quickly hit upon the first warning sign in Van Gogh. He falls in love with his cousin "K" who rejects him, and all of his family also tells him "It's not gonna happen, Vinny," but his psyche can't process the fact that love is denied. In fact, he takes on the typical throes of delusion that younger wills often fall victim to and sees the denial as an encouragement, something that is challenging not only himself and his ego but also challenging LOVE as a kind of universal concept.
Van Gogh lives in terms of ideals, and the ecstasy of the spirit means that simple emotions which most folks can experience and not get totally swept away by happen on a larger magnitude. I'm a bit familiar with this both from my own overdramatic youth and from the growing pains of those who are actually developmentally 'off' that I've associated with in my past. One fraternity brother obsessed so completely over one of our mutual friends who made the mistake of being beautiful, unattainable to him, and completely -nice-, that when she would enter a room at a party we would all actually count the seconds before our other friend would find his way into the room and begin pestering through proximity.
We never got above 10 seconds, and even then most of the time it was 5. Once the ego declared that no, this girl really did love him and there still was the smallest chance, it became an exercise in futility. Any evidence to the contrary was handled by emotional logic, or e-logic, which filters reality through the emotional filter and removes any ability to acknowledge evidence to the contrary of the obsession. Since reality doesn't support the behaviors based on the obsession, it becomes a dangerous ticking time bomb. I'd imagine that serial killers or most crimes of passion occur because of the crossed wires of obsession at this intense emotional level. Since I'm only vaguely acquainted with the generalities of Van Gogh's history, I know that his rage at being thwarted by reality turns inwards and begins to destroy him from the inside, but had his temperament been less gentle history might have remembered Vincent for being a very different kind of creature who evoked horror and not sympathy.
Regardless, this is a very good read. He thinks big thoughts and the lens of his artistic talent amplifies everything around him. I don't question that he isolates himself from others, really, except from a long distance relationship with his brother Theo. When a Sensitive is in development, she needs to get away from the flood of emotional backwash and ambient static which normal interpersonal relationships entails.
Reading on.
Sensitives
In the pagan community usually the term 'Sensitive' is assumed to mean someone who is moderately psychic, or has latent abilities not yet developed. I use it in something of a broader term which isn't meant to specify just what someone is Sensitive toward. It could be color, perception, spirits, the future, food, emotions, what have you. I use it more in the terms of Joseph Campbell describing the likely candidates for shamanic training among primitives.
Sensitives are those humans who enter this life and have a more finely honed or refined ability to perceive, process, or respond to external or internal stimuli than other humans. It's not a value statement, it's more a statement of the precision of their ability to measure or interact with various things. For example, a seismograph is very sensitive to certain geological vibrations and motions which most humans can't feel or notice until they become full blown earth tremors or earthquakes. As a tool, it's sensitive to those vibrations which most other tools are not. As a result, the needle on a seismograph flutters when a pen on a page would be still.
Different humans perceive, process, or respond differently to the same stimuli. A sniper has a highly developed hand/eye coordination and ability to target. They're Sensitives in a different sort of way, and receive the training needed to make the most of their ability.
A Sensitive is likely to come at odds with the rest of us eventually as they begin to realize that, for some reason or another, folks around them are not responding to the same things they are. Or everyone else is ignoring what is setting them off and apparently refusing to see. Until the Sensitive realizes that their factory default is set differently than everyone else, or most everyone else, it can be extremely frustrating. If you've got access to someone else who understands what's going on, they can mentor you. If not... you're on your own to figure out how to deal with it.
First reaction of a Sensitive tends to be a dramatic confrontation with others. For those who have their gifts since childhood, this is a turbulent period in their early development. For those who come into their gifts later, this can be obsession, depression, megalomania, mania, argumentation, and sheer stubborn willfulness. Then when it becomes clear that it's an uphill battle, there's typically a self-imposed period of isolation or distacing from the rest of the world or community. This gives the space required to begin to come to grips with the Sensitivity.
Psychology will often diagnose Sensitives as being part of a problem, or from the symptoms they manifest instead of seeing the cure. And sometimes modern psychology has good tools to allow for a more peaceful integration of the Sensitive into community. Certain meds can allow for the continued development of social maturity without necessarily deadening or dulling the sensitivity. Some sensitivities are so finely precise and prone to being set off that a temporary dulling is actually desirable, to give the person a period of peace. Luckily, the kinds of meds which remove or damage the sensitivity completely don't seem to be used much anymore since they also severely impaired normal functioning as well... like Thorazine, for example.
I remain confident that contemporary psychological thought will eventually arrive at a sort of 'experiential therapy course' which will borrow heavily from shamanic training and old solutions, coupled with light uses of meds and a practice of pairing highly functioning sensitives with newly emerging sensitives to allow for transmission of wisdom and coping strategies to help shorten the period of adjustment.
Being Sensitive implies a destiny, a fate, a gift, or a dharma as 'Guru' Dave would put it. The process of adjustment consumes decades sometimes, but once it's done the Sensitive is finally empowered, individualized, and armed with coping techniques which allow the actual 'gift' or 'work' to begin. Sensitives take great pains from the rest of humanity to acculturate and socialize, but once functional levels of acculturation and socialization, and sheer outright coping, are attained then the gifts that pour forth from the Sensitive according to her own areas of sensitivity are often seen as Gifted, Genius, or Talented at the very least. To find Van Gogh the painter at the bottom of Van Gogh the tortured soul, is very much not surprising.
***
Food Poisoning
Slight change of subject. I had thought that my general feelings of malaise and gastrointestinal gymnastics of the last few days were the results of overindulgences in a party on Monday night. However, I found out to my horror that the turkey cold cuts from Stop & Shop had turned in our fridge just two days after purchase and I was actually undergoing a mild case of food poisoning. Lovely.
I'm a bit upset at Stop & Shop, a subsidiary of Giant Foods, if I recall correctly. They put in a store recently in the middle of the Urban Blight Sprawl of Bridgeport, and they seem to have made decisions of what to stock it with based upon racial and economic profiling. Ground beef cannot be found there any leaner than 85% in any quantities more than a pound, and the price point is significantly higher for the leaner beef than it is at a nearby Stop & Shop in an affluent neighborhood. And I've noticed several times that the Boars Head cold cuts were slightly drier and older in the new ghetto Stop & Shop, but for the same price.
Sad, really. This isn't a glorified garbage can with packaging, it's a grocery store. Shame on Stop & Shop for attempting to pawn off substandard products just because the local neighborhoods have a higher concentration of poverty than elsewhere. Did they think we wouldn't notice? Maybe so. And that's an even sadder statement than simply passing less-than-optimal quality along to customers in the first place.
Life is an eye-opening experience as a white man in a predominantly ethnic minority neighborhood. I'm sure the food is safe, but I question the geographic distribution of the "sub-optimal" foodstuffs... why put all of it here, instead of distributing it evenly among the rest of the chain's many stores nearby?
Hmm... Well, I had originally intended these last few paragraphs to be a Satire, but I suppose my clunky lack of comedy or style means I have to try harder to master that witty comedic form. Oh well. Here's my initial attempt. ;) Good thing for me satire cannot be considered slander or libellous. Good thing for me as well that my satirical attempt above doesn't need to be good to be considered an attempt at satire.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Dear Theo notes
Part of studying with Dave means that I have homework. First reading assignment is DEAR THEO by Vincent VanGogh. I picked up my copy today from the Fairfield Borders. I'll be keeping some notes here.
30 pages in and already Van Gogh is showing through. He sees differently than his contemporaries, even though he's still in the phase of yearning solely to become a clergyman. He doodles and dismisses what he draws as being secondary to the pursuit of the spirit. Yet he's already beginning to find those things which on the surface seem to be conforming to the spirit of his times, yet underneath are truly his own. He thinks, and he thinks deeply. He dismisses some art forms which are apparently well thought of by his Uncle as being devoid of soul.
Makes me think. As much as I like to poke fun of the heady self-importance of trying to decide what makes Art, as opposed to Illustration, or even 'just' Paint on a Canvas, it becomes immediately apparent that the question is a valid one. I'll have to keep that in mind, though I don't know that I necessarily need to have the idea solid before producing art myself. Odd consideration. Maybe it's better phrased as "what makes Art -good-?" Not necessarily pretty, but what elevates certain kinds of art while other artists become recognized for technical brilliance but never attain any kind of vaunted status? Not that status is the proper desire for any artist, but it's still a question which immediately jumps to mind. What's the difference between a Vermeer, for example, and an Ary Sheffer, for example? Who's Ary Sheffer? Exactly.
Reading on.
One thing is for certain, though... Van Gogh was extremely intelligent, and extremely attentive to his surroundings, even from the beginning of his letters in his early 20's.
30 pages in and already Van Gogh is showing through. He sees differently than his contemporaries, even though he's still in the phase of yearning solely to become a clergyman. He doodles and dismisses what he draws as being secondary to the pursuit of the spirit. Yet he's already beginning to find those things which on the surface seem to be conforming to the spirit of his times, yet underneath are truly his own. He thinks, and he thinks deeply. He dismisses some art forms which are apparently well thought of by his Uncle as being devoid of soul.
Makes me think. As much as I like to poke fun of the heady self-importance of trying to decide what makes Art, as opposed to Illustration, or even 'just' Paint on a Canvas, it becomes immediately apparent that the question is a valid one. I'll have to keep that in mind, though I don't know that I necessarily need to have the idea solid before producing art myself. Odd consideration. Maybe it's better phrased as "what makes Art -good-?" Not necessarily pretty, but what elevates certain kinds of art while other artists become recognized for technical brilliance but never attain any kind of vaunted status? Not that status is the proper desire for any artist, but it's still a question which immediately jumps to mind. What's the difference between a Vermeer, for example, and an Ary Sheffer, for example? Who's Ary Sheffer? Exactly.
Reading on.
One thing is for certain, though... Van Gogh was extremely intelligent, and extremely attentive to his surroundings, even from the beginning of his letters in his early 20's.
Creation Required
What is it about new beginnings which captures the imagination so fervently? There's something alluring about the blank page, the new endeavor, the blank slate. No past, no trials, nothing but pure unbridled potential. Of course, that fades quickly, but the strength of the finished piece begins with the first brushstroke, the first word, the first post, the first mark. From there, all potential narrows and becomes something else. It's the natural order of creations, and it's our job as artists and makers to commit to the path and deal with the process of unfolding that making entails.
I've blogged before, and even gotten a small audience going before switching to a different format and completely disappearing into obscurity. I'm glad that technology has advanced to the point that blogging is now free and the editors are intuitive. As a creator myself, I'm always looking for tools which are transparent in the hand. If I'm struggling to make the tool work, it's detracting from the work at hand.
My name is Adam. I'm 35 years old, and I make things. I'm a Renaissance Man in a Specialist World. I write fiction, prose, poetry, do ceramics, sculpt, draw, do graphic designs, play with Photoshop and Illustrator, and as of this past weekend, I do oil painting and watercolors as well. I don't take my label from any one medium, and I don't know that you could sum me up as anything other than an 'artist' in the broadest sense of the word. I am a visionary, a rebel, a study in paradox. Professional by day, Bohemian by night, as my friend Tish puts it.
I am, in short, a maker. I make things, and I make things happen. I've lived the cuckoo's life. Adopted at birth into an Italian family, I've never quite fit in (although they've accepted me just fine and I have a loving, supportive relationship with all of my immediate family members). I'm too weird for the normal folks, and too normal for the weird folks. It's not intentional - I was scorned by the punk kids in high school (this was the 80's and punk rockers were actually seen as being intimidating back then... now I see them on the old films and laugh), and shunned by the normal folks. I played clarinet and was a geek and a nerd and a band fag, but even in the band I was respected for my musical talents but avoided because I just wasn't ever a part of the crowd despite every single effort ever made.
I mention this only because after 35 years of it all, I'm ready to tell the world to fuck off and start living my life without guilt or shame. I'm weird and I'm fine with that. It's not from trying, it's just the factory default setting for my life.
I start this whole blog because this past weekend I've begun a formal apprenticeship with the pluralist artist David Gulotta. He's teaching me painting (oils, watercolors, and pastels among other fine arts) in the old fashioned style of Master and Apprentice. I'm learning everything from the ground up: how to grind pigments, make paint, make brushes, stretch canvas, etc. It's something of a reaction to the VAST amount of know-how which has been sacrificed over the years since the "Art School" appeared on the scene. In one weekend I've already learned more about painting and sketching than I did in my art classes in college.
I've been affectionately been given the Apprentice Title of "Roundeye #7". It's a nod to when Dave himself was apprenticing in a Chinese Restaurant kitchen under a master chef. His name was Roundeye, so all of his apprentices get called that affectionately. As the 7th apprentice (a most auspicious number!) I'm Roundeye #7.
The name of this blog is Creation Required. It's a statement of fact for any artist. It's not that I have a choice about it, I simply cannot be emotionally content unless I create something, or put in work on a creation. I need to do it every day the same way that 18 year old guys need to ... well, you get the picture.
The urge to create is primal and pervasive. It is subtle when it manifests, typically appearing as the feeling that there's something I should be doing right now which is not happening. I find myself wandering from room to room in my apartment and driving my husband Storm nuts. I feel distracted, unsettled, unable to concentrate on television or computer games (with exception of Civilization and SimCity, that is... those games count as "creating" for my psyche). Sometimes I'll eat before realizing that the hunger I feel is emotional and tied with the need to express, to advance some project or work, or to just make something.
It happens more or less every day. When I indulge the creative need, I get to a point where there' a sort of inner quiet and afterglow like sex. Contentment, satisfaction, and peace. The creation has advanced, something has been brought forth from the inner spaces, and now, for a time, I may relax.
And so I call this exactly what it is. CREATION REQUIRED. Not optional. For me to be truly happy, I would need to be somewhat independently wealthy. Not for all of the toys and extra stuff I could buy, but just so that I could enter a studio and work on whatever happened to need creating that day. I can make schedules and tie myself to projects so that I can produce on demand, but I'm much happier when I can go where the spirit takes me. Maybe today it's drumming on my djembe, or dancing to music, or listening to a broadway show and making blocking charts and director's plans in my head for lighting and scenery and costumes. Or maybe it's sketching, or painting, or digital photography, or writing the next chapter in a book.
That's ideal. It also doesn't happen for me yet, but it's a dream of mine to get to that point where I can just be an artist and make stuff, and then hand the finished pieces over to someone else to worry about sales or turning them into profits. I'm a dreamer though, so I'm holding that eventuality in my mind firmly. I will dream large, and dare to dream about being the perfect vessel for a new way of seeing and thinking which gains sufficient recognition to free me from worrying about "working" for someone else ever again. As goals go, that's a great one. To be fiscally independent simply because the 9-5 grind interferes with the artist's life. To have property where no one may trespass without invitation, where the atmosphere of safety which all artists need can come about. That's my dream.
But since I'm still tied to the 9-5, working a career as a staffing agent for the Creative industry in Southern Connecticut, I'm forced to wrestle with the truth. That might be the dream, but this is the reality. It's totally a do-able dream, but like everything in my life -- Creation Required.
I've blogged before, and even gotten a small audience going before switching to a different format and completely disappearing into obscurity. I'm glad that technology has advanced to the point that blogging is now free and the editors are intuitive. As a creator myself, I'm always looking for tools which are transparent in the hand. If I'm struggling to make the tool work, it's detracting from the work at hand.
About myself
My name is Adam. I'm 35 years old, and I make things. I'm a Renaissance Man in a Specialist World. I write fiction, prose, poetry, do ceramics, sculpt, draw, do graphic designs, play with Photoshop and Illustrator, and as of this past weekend, I do oil painting and watercolors as well. I don't take my label from any one medium, and I don't know that you could sum me up as anything other than an 'artist' in the broadest sense of the word. I am a visionary, a rebel, a study in paradox. Professional by day, Bohemian by night, as my friend Tish puts it.
I am, in short, a maker. I make things, and I make things happen. I've lived the cuckoo's life. Adopted at birth into an Italian family, I've never quite fit in (although they've accepted me just fine and I have a loving, supportive relationship with all of my immediate family members). I'm too weird for the normal folks, and too normal for the weird folks. It's not intentional - I was scorned by the punk kids in high school (this was the 80's and punk rockers were actually seen as being intimidating back then... now I see them on the old films and laugh), and shunned by the normal folks. I played clarinet and was a geek and a nerd and a band fag, but even in the band I was respected for my musical talents but avoided because I just wasn't ever a part of the crowd despite every single effort ever made.
I mention this only because after 35 years of it all, I'm ready to tell the world to fuck off and start living my life without guilt or shame. I'm weird and I'm fine with that. It's not from trying, it's just the factory default setting for my life.
Why Blog Now?
I start this whole blog because this past weekend I've begun a formal apprenticeship with the pluralist artist David Gulotta. He's teaching me painting (oils, watercolors, and pastels among other fine arts) in the old fashioned style of Master and Apprentice. I'm learning everything from the ground up: how to grind pigments, make paint, make brushes, stretch canvas, etc. It's something of a reaction to the VAST amount of know-how which has been sacrificed over the years since the "Art School" appeared on the scene. In one weekend I've already learned more about painting and sketching than I did in my art classes in college.
I've been affectionately been given the Apprentice Title of "Roundeye #7". It's a nod to when Dave himself was apprenticing in a Chinese Restaurant kitchen under a master chef. His name was Roundeye, so all of his apprentices get called that affectionately. As the 7th apprentice (a most auspicious number!) I'm Roundeye #7.
Creation Required
The name of this blog is Creation Required. It's a statement of fact for any artist. It's not that I have a choice about it, I simply cannot be emotionally content unless I create something, or put in work on a creation. I need to do it every day the same way that 18 year old guys need to ... well, you get the picture.
The urge to create is primal and pervasive. It is subtle when it manifests, typically appearing as the feeling that there's something I should be doing right now which is not happening. I find myself wandering from room to room in my apartment and driving my husband Storm nuts. I feel distracted, unsettled, unable to concentrate on television or computer games (with exception of Civilization and SimCity, that is... those games count as "creating" for my psyche). Sometimes I'll eat before realizing that the hunger I feel is emotional and tied with the need to express, to advance some project or work, or to just make something.
It happens more or less every day. When I indulge the creative need, I get to a point where there' a sort of inner quiet and afterglow like sex. Contentment, satisfaction, and peace. The creation has advanced, something has been brought forth from the inner spaces, and now, for a time, I may relax.
And so I call this exactly what it is. CREATION REQUIRED. Not optional. For me to be truly happy, I would need to be somewhat independently wealthy. Not for all of the toys and extra stuff I could buy, but just so that I could enter a studio and work on whatever happened to need creating that day. I can make schedules and tie myself to projects so that I can produce on demand, but I'm much happier when I can go where the spirit takes me. Maybe today it's drumming on my djembe, or dancing to music, or listening to a broadway show and making blocking charts and director's plans in my head for lighting and scenery and costumes. Or maybe it's sketching, or painting, or digital photography, or writing the next chapter in a book.
That's ideal. It also doesn't happen for me yet, but it's a dream of mine to get to that point where I can just be an artist and make stuff, and then hand the finished pieces over to someone else to worry about sales or turning them into profits. I'm a dreamer though, so I'm holding that eventuality in my mind firmly. I will dream large, and dare to dream about being the perfect vessel for a new way of seeing and thinking which gains sufficient recognition to free me from worrying about "working" for someone else ever again. As goals go, that's a great one. To be fiscally independent simply because the 9-5 grind interferes with the artist's life. To have property where no one may trespass without invitation, where the atmosphere of safety which all artists need can come about. That's my dream.
But since I'm still tied to the 9-5, working a career as a staffing agent for the Creative industry in Southern Connecticut, I'm forced to wrestle with the truth. That might be the dream, but this is the reality. It's totally a do-able dream, but like everything in my life -- Creation Required.
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