This song, "My Bedroom is Like for Artists" by Latterman, sums up a lot of things I've been thinking about lately. I'm posting it in lieu of a long-winded poorly constructed rant.
(Sadly, the band isn't together anymore. Check out the back catalog for some good old fashioned socially conscious punk rock. I never got to see them play, but I did get to listen to a show via Scott Heisel's cell phone, which is probably a more interesting story, anyway.)
May your music break my ear drums
and your pavement scrape my knees,
and the next time i get up and try leaving town
shoot my fucking plane to the ground.
I saw new things in the same old town that year
after I decided being dead inside wasn't an option.
I think I can be too romantic.
yeah, I think I was just too romantic.
streets gentrified like it's no problem.
boys in bands still singing about killing their girlfriends.
people leave communities while their still struggling.
come on everybody sing along
we're to blame.
punks start dealing with their own white privilege.
we tell all the boys to stop being so aggressive.
actually giving a shit about the place we live in.
I see life alive in so many peoples eyes.
let's hope we won't be dead inside.
even though it's warm down here,
don't let it lull us to sleep.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
the culture of giant accesories
[This is the latest installment of BLOG WARS. This rounds topic is "Storage of Your Daily Shit: Guys vs. Girls" In my usual fashion, I had a hard time staying on topic. Feel free to see how Nick and the newly recruited Schanz treated the topic.]
On our way to the grocery store one afternoon, my friend’s four-year-old looked at my purse and asked, “why is your bag so small?” I replied, “because I don’t have much to carry.” He looked at me for a second, looked at the purse again, looked back at me, and shrugged.
It’s a novel idea, isn’t it, carrying a bag only large enough for what you need, and paring down the idea of what you need to mean what you need?
On a normal outing, say shopping or dinner, all I really need on me are my wallet, my cell phone, keys, chap stick, and maybe gum or candy, maybe my iPod. If I’m going out to the bar, my load is even lighter: I.D., some cash, cell phone, and keys, all of which I’ll shove in my pockets (if I’m wearing something with pockets). If I’m going to work or school, I’ve got a messenger bag in which I carry all the above essentials plus books and food. Still, most of the space goes unused. Maybe I’m just a minimalist at heart, but I have yet to figure out why anyone (other than mothers of small children) would need to carry around a purse big enough to moonlight as a body bag. And when I see them, I get dizzy from all the questions and confusion: what’s in there? A small dog? A rack of barbecued ribs? A portal to another dimension? How do you find things? Are you ever afraid of what you might find? Are you concerned you will pick up your purse one day to find a homeless midget squatting next to your lip gloss? Well, you should be. I would be.
Most ladies don’t think about these things, and it’s because fashion trumps function. We need to have at least one ridiculous en vogue item on hand at all times, and since high heels, the perennial favorite of the fashion over function rule, have been shunned as of late in favor of the much safer and more practical flat (safe and practical until you drunkenly slip out of and trip over one on your way down the stair at The Filmore and sprain your ankle. Hypothetically speaking of course.) the giant purse comes into our lives. And just like high heels trick you into thinking you are tall and glamorous when most of us really look strained and awkward, giant purses make you think you look fashionable and important (look at that lady’s giant bag! She must be transporting many important documents and artifacts and is much too busy to make multiple trips! How I admire her!) when really most of us just look like a child playing dress up with her mom’s accessories.
Don’t snicker too hard, fellas. Ladies certainly do not have a lock on clothing hyper-functional in appearance yet wasteful in use. Remember cargo pants? In any of the many many times I’ve seen dudes in cargo pants, I’ve never seen any of them with the pockets filled (unless said pants were being worn by a soldier or survival expert). Why all the pockets if you aren’t even going to pretend to fill them? It’s worse than carrying a man-purse. It’s like carrying 6 or 7 tiny man-purses.
For the sake of full disclosure, I should mention that I’ve worn my share of ridiculous clothing…platform sneakers, pants with fake pockets, ginormous sunglasses, and on and on. It’s our right as Americans. In fact, in some ways, cargo pants and giant purses are commentary on the culture. A loosely related aside: sometimes when I’m working in Frankenmuth, I play this game in which I guess where people are from before they tell me (people from out of town always tell, whether you ask or not). People from Detroit dress like rappers, people from Canada wear sensible layers, people from Southern states dress like they are in the Iditarod. Then there are foreigners, mostly from Europe or Asia (specifically China or Japan). The dead giveaways are the slim figures and stylish, stream-lined outfits. There are no superfluous accessories or unused space. Are our accessories and the ways we carry our daily products a reflection of our inflated egos and waistlines? Is there room for cargo pockets or giant purses in the midst of economic depression?
I’m not sure those are question that need answers. I’m not sure those are even questions that need to be asked. You can wear whatever you want. But I will ask you to consider this: Sunday night at the 211, I got whacked across the head by a giant purse on the should of a very tiny and very careless hipster. Two days later, I got violently ill and have only just left my bed in the past two hours or so. I’m not saying the two are related, but I also can’t prove they’re not.
On our way to the grocery store one afternoon, my friend’s four-year-old looked at my purse and asked, “why is your bag so small?” I replied, “because I don’t have much to carry.” He looked at me for a second, looked at the purse again, looked back at me, and shrugged.
It’s a novel idea, isn’t it, carrying a bag only large enough for what you need, and paring down the idea of what you need to mean what you need?
On a normal outing, say shopping or dinner, all I really need on me are my wallet, my cell phone, keys, chap stick, and maybe gum or candy, maybe my iPod. If I’m going out to the bar, my load is even lighter: I.D., some cash, cell phone, and keys, all of which I’ll shove in my pockets (if I’m wearing something with pockets). If I’m going to work or school, I’ve got a messenger bag in which I carry all the above essentials plus books and food. Still, most of the space goes unused. Maybe I’m just a minimalist at heart, but I have yet to figure out why anyone (other than mothers of small children) would need to carry around a purse big enough to moonlight as a body bag. And when I see them, I get dizzy from all the questions and confusion: what’s in there? A small dog? A rack of barbecued ribs? A portal to another dimension? How do you find things? Are you ever afraid of what you might find? Are you concerned you will pick up your purse one day to find a homeless midget squatting next to your lip gloss? Well, you should be. I would be.
Most ladies don’t think about these things, and it’s because fashion trumps function. We need to have at least one ridiculous en vogue item on hand at all times, and since high heels, the perennial favorite of the fashion over function rule, have been shunned as of late in favor of the much safer and more practical flat (safe and practical until you drunkenly slip out of and trip over one on your way down the stair at The Filmore and sprain your ankle. Hypothetically speaking of course.) the giant purse comes into our lives. And just like high heels trick you into thinking you are tall and glamorous when most of us really look strained and awkward, giant purses make you think you look fashionable and important (look at that lady’s giant bag! She must be transporting many important documents and artifacts and is much too busy to make multiple trips! How I admire her!) when really most of us just look like a child playing dress up with her mom’s accessories.
Don’t snicker too hard, fellas. Ladies certainly do not have a lock on clothing hyper-functional in appearance yet wasteful in use. Remember cargo pants? In any of the many many times I’ve seen dudes in cargo pants, I’ve never seen any of them with the pockets filled (unless said pants were being worn by a soldier or survival expert). Why all the pockets if you aren’t even going to pretend to fill them? It’s worse than carrying a man-purse. It’s like carrying 6 or 7 tiny man-purses.
For the sake of full disclosure, I should mention that I’ve worn my share of ridiculous clothing…platform sneakers, pants with fake pockets, ginormous sunglasses, and on and on. It’s our right as Americans. In fact, in some ways, cargo pants and giant purses are commentary on the culture. A loosely related aside: sometimes when I’m working in Frankenmuth, I play this game in which I guess where people are from before they tell me (people from out of town always tell, whether you ask or not). People from Detroit dress like rappers, people from Canada wear sensible layers, people from Southern states dress like they are in the Iditarod. Then there are foreigners, mostly from Europe or Asia (specifically China or Japan). The dead giveaways are the slim figures and stylish, stream-lined outfits. There are no superfluous accessories or unused space. Are our accessories and the ways we carry our daily products a reflection of our inflated egos and waistlines? Is there room for cargo pockets or giant purses in the midst of economic depression?
I’m not sure those are question that need answers. I’m not sure those are even questions that need to be asked. You can wear whatever you want. But I will ask you to consider this: Sunday night at the 211, I got whacked across the head by a giant purse on the should of a very tiny and very careless hipster. Two days later, I got violently ill and have only just left my bed in the past two hours or so. I’m not saying the two are related, but I also can’t prove they’re not.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
On Nick on friends
This is a response to a blog post by my dear friend, Nick. So go read that first and give some context to the following.
Done? Ok. Here's my answer to his questions:
I change who I talk to based on what I'm talking about and what sort of comfort I'm seeking. In return, I expect friends to do the same when seeking comfort from me.
I don't think it's a secret that the friend mentioned in Nick's original post is me, and I also don't think it's a secret that I've got a bit of an ice queen reputation (a friend said to me once in the middle of a semi-public somewhat alcohol induced meltdown, "at least people can see you have a heart"). Referring to my personality as "not touchy-feely" may be an understatement. . My reception of bad news goes like this: have a total freak out meltdown, take a nap, wake up and figure out how to deal with and possibly laugh about it. In rare occasions that my system doesn't cut it (extreme heartbreak, jail, death of a loved one) I tend to retreat to myself for awhile, maybe take a few more naps. For all my creative tendencies and interests, I'm realistic and analytical when it comes to affairs of the heart/emotions. So if you come to me with relationship troubles or confusion about your life's purpose or a fight with your roommate, I might not literally suggest we go drink it off, but I will give you a no-nonsense opinion, possibly some tough love, and then move on. That certainly doesn't make me the most nurturing or emotionally available companion, and it's a hopelessly unromantic way to function, but it doesn't make me a bad friend, either.
Like Shrek, I and my friendships have onion-like layers. Different friends fulfill different functions and, likewise, you fulfill certain functions in their life. Real friends know what those functions are, and don't seek out anything other than what a person is capable of/willing to give. What I mean is, you can't expect a friend to be everything to you all the time. People are unique and show their love in different ways. If you're a Hallmark movie watcher, you can't expect your friend with a robot heart to scrutinize your boyfriend and cry with you for four hours. Likewise, if your the analytical type, don't expect your "let's talk about feeeeeeelings" friend to sit down and pore over the details of your color coded pro/con lists every time you have a decision to make.
I have friends who I talk to about relationships. I have friends who I talk to about writing. I have friends who I talk to over beers. I have friends who share celebrity gossip. I have friends who share music. I have friends who literally let me cry on their shoulder. I have friends who'd prefer we keep things on the surface. I have friends who span several categories. A person concerned with being a good friend will recognize and appreciate the differences of the people in their life and, in turn (hopefully), that understanding will be reciprocated.
So say a friend comes to me with some sort of conundrum about a significant other or another friend or a co-worker. I comiserate about what a jerk that person is for a minute. Then I start asking questions in my annoying analytical way, and try to make said friend think about things in a more rational way. And then I usually suggest we go get drunk. Does my method work for everyone and every problem? No. But I'm lucky enough to have smart friends who know how I operate, and will go elsewhere to find different consolation without feeling abandoned. It's about knowing your friends. And if you are at the point in your life I am right now and still don't know the important people in your life well enough for everything I said to apply, you should probably rethink your relationships.
Done? Ok. Here's my answer to his questions:
I change who I talk to based on what I'm talking about and what sort of comfort I'm seeking. In return, I expect friends to do the same when seeking comfort from me.
I don't think it's a secret that the friend mentioned in Nick's original post is me, and I also don't think it's a secret that I've got a bit of an ice queen reputation (a friend said to me once in the middle of a semi-public somewhat alcohol induced meltdown, "at least people can see you have a heart"). Referring to my personality as "not touchy-feely" may be an understatement. . My reception of bad news goes like this: have a total freak out meltdown, take a nap, wake up and figure out how to deal with and possibly laugh about it. In rare occasions that my system doesn't cut it (extreme heartbreak, jail, death of a loved one) I tend to retreat to myself for awhile, maybe take a few more naps. For all my creative tendencies and interests, I'm realistic and analytical when it comes to affairs of the heart/emotions. So if you come to me with relationship troubles or confusion about your life's purpose or a fight with your roommate, I might not literally suggest we go drink it off, but I will give you a no-nonsense opinion, possibly some tough love, and then move on. That certainly doesn't make me the most nurturing or emotionally available companion, and it's a hopelessly unromantic way to function, but it doesn't make me a bad friend, either.
Like Shrek, I and my friendships have onion-like layers. Different friends fulfill different functions and, likewise, you fulfill certain functions in their life. Real friends know what those functions are, and don't seek out anything other than what a person is capable of/willing to give. What I mean is, you can't expect a friend to be everything to you all the time. People are unique and show their love in different ways. If you're a Hallmark movie watcher, you can't expect your friend with a robot heart to scrutinize your boyfriend and cry with you for four hours. Likewise, if your the analytical type, don't expect your "let's talk about feeeeeeelings" friend to sit down and pore over the details of your color coded pro/con lists every time you have a decision to make.
I have friends who I talk to about relationships. I have friends who I talk to about writing. I have friends who I talk to over beers. I have friends who share celebrity gossip. I have friends who share music. I have friends who literally let me cry on their shoulder. I have friends who'd prefer we keep things on the surface. I have friends who span several categories. A person concerned with being a good friend will recognize and appreciate the differences of the people in their life and, in turn (hopefully), that understanding will be reciprocated.
So say a friend comes to me with some sort of conundrum about a significant other or another friend or a co-worker. I comiserate about what a jerk that person is for a minute. Then I start asking questions in my annoying analytical way, and try to make said friend think about things in a more rational way. And then I usually suggest we go get drunk. Does my method work for everyone and every problem? No. But I'm lucky enough to have smart friends who know how I operate, and will go elsewhere to find different consolation without feeling abandoned. It's about knowing your friends. And if you are at the point in your life I am right now and still don't know the important people in your life well enough for everything I said to apply, you should probably rethink your relationships.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
been thinking a lot today
Again, I go unfocused. I should be writing and looking for financial aid and applying to 10 more jobs since the last 10 got me nowhere and vaccuming up doggie hair. Blogging/ranting will get me back on track. Shall we?
First, a few words on this whole Rihanna/Chris Brown thing. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you must not have television or internet or human contact. And you know what I think? I think you SHOULD be hearing about it everywhere. I think it's an important story to tell, if it's handled right. We're overloaded with information, especially about celebrities, but this is a time it might do some good. If the public is going to get outraged and plaster Michael Phelps all over the place as an attempt to prove what a horrible role model he is for hittin' the bong for a minute, put Chris Brown's face on billboards.
I'm not saying the kid needs to be crucified. Plenty of stories have come out about the abuse in his past and who really knows what kind of life he's led up to this point, but there is no excuse for abuse. Like it or not, these people are role models, especially to kids, so this whole situation should be a cautionary tale for young men to face the demons of their past (and present), man-up and get some help and for young women to be wary of the signs of abuse and get out before things escalate. Remember back in the 80s when there was that all-star cartoon special about saying no to drugs? They did that because they realized kids would listen to Winnie The Pooh before they would listen to Nancy Reagan. I'd like to see out of this some attention brought to the problem by someone hip explaining what happened and what to do if it happens to you. So far, it's typical sensationalism from the media (some other girl was texting Brown! Rihanna gave him herpes!) and machismo from other celebs (Jay-Z wants to hunt Brown down! T.I. supports Brown!). But, we'll see how it plays out.
P.S. If you've got a few minutes to spend on the subject, check out Kevin Powell's essay on his own experience, especially if you are a dude.
Secondly, Lily Allen's new album, "It's Not Me, It's You" came out and I'm digging. Surprised?
And lastly, I realized yet again that I not only have terrible gaydar, I have terrible this-boy-likes-me-dar. I mean, terrible, sitcom-worthy. It's not that I desperately and instantly cling to any boy who speaks to me, it's just that I seem to have a problem misunderstanding the difference between a boy thinking I'm cool and a boy wanting to date me. Like, I think I'm getting on with a boy and we have, like oh my god, so much in common, and then he asks my twin sister to the dance. Not literally, of course, I don't have a twin sister, but I do experience similar hilarity. It's not all bad. I am always good for a laugh when friends are feeling down and identifying with Liz Lemon has its own sick amusement, but I can't help feel a bit of fear that I am slowly turning into a delusional cat lady who thinks the mail carrier is into her because he comes over to the house every day, even in rain and sleet.
Ok, thanks for listening. Back to productivity :)
First, a few words on this whole Rihanna/Chris Brown thing. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you must not have television or internet or human contact. And you know what I think? I think you SHOULD be hearing about it everywhere. I think it's an important story to tell, if it's handled right. We're overloaded with information, especially about celebrities, but this is a time it might do some good. If the public is going to get outraged and plaster Michael Phelps all over the place as an attempt to prove what a horrible role model he is for hittin' the bong for a minute, put Chris Brown's face on billboards.
I'm not saying the kid needs to be crucified. Plenty of stories have come out about the abuse in his past and who really knows what kind of life he's led up to this point, but there is no excuse for abuse. Like it or not, these people are role models, especially to kids, so this whole situation should be a cautionary tale for young men to face the demons of their past (and present), man-up and get some help and for young women to be wary of the signs of abuse and get out before things escalate. Remember back in the 80s when there was that all-star cartoon special about saying no to drugs? They did that because they realized kids would listen to Winnie The Pooh before they would listen to Nancy Reagan. I'd like to see out of this some attention brought to the problem by someone hip explaining what happened and what to do if it happens to you. So far, it's typical sensationalism from the media (some other girl was texting Brown! Rihanna gave him herpes!) and machismo from other celebs (Jay-Z wants to hunt Brown down! T.I. supports Brown!). But, we'll see how it plays out.
P.S. If you've got a few minutes to spend on the subject, check out Kevin Powell's essay on his own experience, especially if you are a dude.
Secondly, Lily Allen's new album, "It's Not Me, It's You" came out and I'm digging. Surprised?
And lastly, I realized yet again that I not only have terrible gaydar, I have terrible this-boy-likes-me-dar. I mean, terrible, sitcom-worthy. It's not that I desperately and instantly cling to any boy who speaks to me, it's just that I seem to have a problem misunderstanding the difference between a boy thinking I'm cool and a boy wanting to date me. Like, I think I'm getting on with a boy and we have, like oh my god, so much in common, and then he asks my twin sister to the dance. Not literally, of course, I don't have a twin sister, but I do experience similar hilarity. It's not all bad. I am always good for a laugh when friends are feeling down and identifying with Liz Lemon has its own sick amusement, but I can't help feel a bit of fear that I am slowly turning into a delusional cat lady who thinks the mail carrier is into her because he comes over to the house every day, even in rain and sleet.
Ok, thanks for listening. Back to productivity :)
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
there comes a time...
...when you're going to have to choose what you're going to throw yourself behind.
I think everyone should have one thing: a hobby, a person, a song, a painting, a vegetable, a pair of shoes, an idea, a deity, a profession, a pet, a book that they love more than anything. And that one thing will be enough to get you through all the heartbreak and the loneliness and the strife and struggle of everyday life. And you'll always have it to turn to, even in memory, when you feel like you are at your last moment of sanity.
It's your safety net.
It's not as easy as it sounds. But if you have it, please, don't ever let it go. Don't ever take it for granted. Don't ever let someone take it away. Don't ever believe it's not worth the fight.
Those are my thoughts for the night.
Coming soon: BLOG WARS with Nick and Schanz on how gals and dudes carry their belongings, and some thought on women in art that have been kicking around my head and various blogs I've been reading.
I think everyone should have one thing: a hobby, a person, a song, a painting, a vegetable, a pair of shoes, an idea, a deity, a profession, a pet, a book that they love more than anything. And that one thing will be enough to get you through all the heartbreak and the loneliness and the strife and struggle of everyday life. And you'll always have it to turn to, even in memory, when you feel like you are at your last moment of sanity.
It's your safety net.
It's not as easy as it sounds. But if you have it, please, don't ever let it go. Don't ever take it for granted. Don't ever let someone take it away. Don't ever believe it's not worth the fight.
Those are my thoughts for the night.
Coming soon: BLOG WARS with Nick and Schanz on how gals and dudes carry their belongings, and some thought on women in art that have been kicking around my head and various blogs I've been reading.
Monday, February 9, 2009
they show up to the party, but they're never asked to dance
I've always been a bit of an outsider. I've never really been shunned and I wouldn't call myself an outcast, but I tend to exist just outside any clean parameters.
I was too smart to be a normal kid, but not smart enough to be prodigal.
I wasn't cool enough for the cool crowd or weird enough for the weird crowd.
I'm cute but not beautiful, talented but not exceptional.
I'm not a part of any crowd or movement, but I hover in the peripheries.
And those things have never bothered me. I tend to be a loner at heart and sometimes I'm even a little intimidated by the prospect of acceptance. I still don't get invited to all the hip parties, but I'm well-liked enough that I'm certainly not in danger of becoming a hermit.
But here's what I do wonder: As an adult, what does it mean to belong? How does acceptance play into adulthood? Does it matter? Should it matter? I truly don't know my thoughts on this yet, which is why I ask. Things I've been considering in regards to this question: career vs. social life, networking, relationships (the functional, adult kind), grown-up friendships.
Maybe I'll think more on this and have more to say once I get some opinions.
I was too smart to be a normal kid, but not smart enough to be prodigal.
I wasn't cool enough for the cool crowd or weird enough for the weird crowd.
I'm cute but not beautiful, talented but not exceptional.
I'm not a part of any crowd or movement, but I hover in the peripheries.
And those things have never bothered me. I tend to be a loner at heart and sometimes I'm even a little intimidated by the prospect of acceptance. I still don't get invited to all the hip parties, but I'm well-liked enough that I'm certainly not in danger of becoming a hermit.
But here's what I do wonder: As an adult, what does it mean to belong? How does acceptance play into adulthood? Does it matter? Should it matter? I truly don't know my thoughts on this yet, which is why I ask. Things I've been considering in regards to this question: career vs. social life, networking, relationships (the functional, adult kind), grown-up friendships.
Maybe I'll think more on this and have more to say once I get some opinions.
Monday, February 2, 2009
In defense of my temporary stagnation
[This is the second installation of BLOG WARS. BLOG WARS is an ongoing series of intense competitive blogging between my dear friend Nick and I. We muse on the same topic, and our responses fight to the death. Actually, it's not competitive at all. It just sounds cooler to say it is. It's really just us being nerds. Anyway, onward.]
Nick sez: Kim told me once that it's incredibly difficult to look for a job when you have one full time.
I sez: I wouldn't know the first thing about having a full-time job, but I'd argue that looking for a job when you don't have one is incredibly difficult for a whole other set of reasons.
Allow me to wax autobiographically for a moment, so you can understand where I'm coming from with this argument: In May of 2008, I graduated from SVSU with a major in English (professional and technical writing, specifically. PTW people get weird about calling it an English major) and minors in graphic design and communication. I had spent 2 years working for the campus fine arts publication, Cardinal Sins, first as a lowly editorial staff member, then as editor-in-chief, and then demoting myself back to a general staff member.
On paper, that lady looks like she's on the fast track to success. But then I throw a wrench in things by telling you that I was completely uninterested by everything involved in my chosen major and minors. I'm not saying they aren't good programs, lots of my cohorts were busy learning great things and producing quality work, I was just clearly not programmed to do the same. Creative writing courses gave me a reprieve (at least I was studying/writing things that interested me) and folks started bring up the possibility of grad school, but it was too little too late. And then, about a week before I would graduate with a degree I'd spent months already regretting, I got arrested. And though the hammer of justice certainly did not come down as hard as it could have, I was fragile enough that it didn't take much force to crush me emotionally and financially.
Thus began my painful bout of temporary stagnation.
I’d never felt more than a brief moment of self-doubt in my life, and experiencing it at such a crucial time was, to put it lightly, not easy. Just so I’m not a hypocrite, in regards to my previous rant about people thinking they are special: I don’t think I’m special. I think most people my age are just getting past the point of being handed participation ribbons instead of rejections. It’s easy to start thinking you suck. My generation is, for the most part, extremely coddled. It’s not easy to leave the Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood of college or high school or the job you’ve been in forever. It’s familiar and you know what to expect. Even if it’s horrible at times, you can foresee those horrible times and usually have people around to commiserate. But starting over…building a career, going to grad school…you are on your own with no idea what to expect. It’s easy to doubt that things will ever get rolling. And the worst thing is that self-doubt is even more powerful than self confidence. Confidence can let you move the proverbial mountains, doubt will turn you into one. I know it did me.
So, maybe, just maybe, sometimes we don’t try that hard to look for jobs. Maybe when we should be searching Monster we are trolling Facebook. And there have probably been a few nights where we could have studied a little harder instead of staying for one last beer, and maybe that would have given us a leg up in the long run. But if there’s anything I’ve learned during my stagnation period (and, in fact, I’ve learned a lot) it’s that nobody is perfect, for crying out loud. We could spend all day every day chasing the holy grail of the perfect job, but when we get there will we be living in a place we enjoy? Will we have time for our hobbies? Will we keep au fait on our loved ones, or let relationships fade? These things are important. Having a beer with an old friend is important. There, I said it. And I don’t feel guilty when something fun gets in the way of being productive. You know how when someone goes on a diet and cuts themselves off from every food they like, and then is either miserable or slips up and gorges? That’s sort of how I feel about the whole moving on thing. It’s been in those moments of frivolity and vice that I’ve figured out some important things. I’ve had the time to attend and help out with events that have solidified my ideas about art and community. I’ve gotten some of my most encouraging words concerning grad school from text exchanges while I’m bored at my crappy retail job. So, I mean, maybe goofing off has its strong points. Or maybe I’m justifying my nonsense. That’s certainly up for debate.
Ok, so let me try to summarize my rambling. Let me break it down, for your sake and mine: the world outside your comfort zone is mean and scary. You have to face it. But maybe you don’t have to face it right this second, and maybe you don’t have to face it every day. Maybe you can find the small beautiful moments even when your life feels lost in transition. I think, at least I speculate, that this might be something you never stop struggling with.
As for me, my wheels are starting to turn.
Nick sez: Kim told me once that it's incredibly difficult to look for a job when you have one full time.
I sez: I wouldn't know the first thing about having a full-time job, but I'd argue that looking for a job when you don't have one is incredibly difficult for a whole other set of reasons.
Allow me to wax autobiographically for a moment, so you can understand where I'm coming from with this argument: In May of 2008, I graduated from SVSU with a major in English (professional and technical writing, specifically. PTW people get weird about calling it an English major) and minors in graphic design and communication. I had spent 2 years working for the campus fine arts publication, Cardinal Sins, first as a lowly editorial staff member, then as editor-in-chief, and then demoting myself back to a general staff member.
On paper, that lady looks like she's on the fast track to success. But then I throw a wrench in things by telling you that I was completely uninterested by everything involved in my chosen major and minors. I'm not saying they aren't good programs, lots of my cohorts were busy learning great things and producing quality work, I was just clearly not programmed to do the same. Creative writing courses gave me a reprieve (at least I was studying/writing things that interested me) and folks started bring up the possibility of grad school, but it was too little too late. And then, about a week before I would graduate with a degree I'd spent months already regretting, I got arrested. And though the hammer of justice certainly did not come down as hard as it could have, I was fragile enough that it didn't take much force to crush me emotionally and financially.
Thus began my painful bout of temporary stagnation.
I’d never felt more than a brief moment of self-doubt in my life, and experiencing it at such a crucial time was, to put it lightly, not easy. Just so I’m not a hypocrite, in regards to my previous rant about people thinking they are special: I don’t think I’m special. I think most people my age are just getting past the point of being handed participation ribbons instead of rejections. It’s easy to start thinking you suck. My generation is, for the most part, extremely coddled. It’s not easy to leave the Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood of college or high school or the job you’ve been in forever. It’s familiar and you know what to expect. Even if it’s horrible at times, you can foresee those horrible times and usually have people around to commiserate. But starting over…building a career, going to grad school…you are on your own with no idea what to expect. It’s easy to doubt that things will ever get rolling. And the worst thing is that self-doubt is even more powerful than self confidence. Confidence can let you move the proverbial mountains, doubt will turn you into one. I know it did me.
So, maybe, just maybe, sometimes we don’t try that hard to look for jobs. Maybe when we should be searching Monster we are trolling Facebook. And there have probably been a few nights where we could have studied a little harder instead of staying for one last beer, and maybe that would have given us a leg up in the long run. But if there’s anything I’ve learned during my stagnation period (and, in fact, I’ve learned a lot) it’s that nobody is perfect, for crying out loud. We could spend all day every day chasing the holy grail of the perfect job, but when we get there will we be living in a place we enjoy? Will we have time for our hobbies? Will we keep au fait on our loved ones, or let relationships fade? These things are important. Having a beer with an old friend is important. There, I said it. And I don’t feel guilty when something fun gets in the way of being productive. You know how when someone goes on a diet and cuts themselves off from every food they like, and then is either miserable or slips up and gorges? That’s sort of how I feel about the whole moving on thing. It’s been in those moments of frivolity and vice that I’ve figured out some important things. I’ve had the time to attend and help out with events that have solidified my ideas about art and community. I’ve gotten some of my most encouraging words concerning grad school from text exchanges while I’m bored at my crappy retail job. So, I mean, maybe goofing off has its strong points. Or maybe I’m justifying my nonsense. That’s certainly up for debate.
Ok, so let me try to summarize my rambling. Let me break it down, for your sake and mine: the world outside your comfort zone is mean and scary. You have to face it. But maybe you don’t have to face it right this second, and maybe you don’t have to face it every day. Maybe you can find the small beautiful moments even when your life feels lost in transition. I think, at least I speculate, that this might be something you never stop struggling with.
As for me, my wheels are starting to turn.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
