Monday, October 25, 2004

someday

someday i'll get employed and everything i'm complaining about right now will look like a silly waste of time, just the way all my frantic crazy banter about wanting out of this country instantly looked like childish, foolish and pointless complaining, the very moment it turned out i got to go. but people don't realize how hard it really was for me to get out of here, nor how much i want to go back. people seemed to think that i needed to be more excited about going to Europe, or that i wasn't being happy enough that i was going, when it was a few days away from the date of departure. how could i have explained, how difficult it had been for me to get out of my hometown, how hard it still is for me not to sink and fall back into that place, to this day? how could i explain how desperate and frantic i always was to leave the town i couldn't escape, how could i explain that situation to the citizens of Champaingne Coast? no matter how many times i've tried to explain it, they still do not understand. they were suprised that i was only gone two weeks; i don't know how long they thought i would be gone, even though i believe i told them it was two weeks. they asked if it was life-changing; how on earth could i have explained what life-changing even means to me anymore? my life is different three times in one day; how could i have described to them that yes, i am just that kind of American that looked out of the plane window and could not, could absolutely not believe, that it was really Germany that i was looking down on? that it didn't hit me that i really was outside the United States, like really and truly was actually outside of the US itself; that that felt like being outside reality, that i was still having trouble getting it through my head on day 4 or 5 of being in Prague... I think they thought i was spoiled or something for not acting excited enough about going; but there's no use in trying to explain, that i knew beforehand that i would have trouble getting it through my head that i was on the other side of the ocean, and that i was really actually there, and that it was a place and not just an idea. they have no idea what coming from foxtown has done to me, and they never really can completelly understand; nor, i guess, can they be expected to understand that i am still only partly recovered from being from there, and that it will take a great deal more work for me to catch up with the rest of the world. i am not from a place that considers other places to be real, or worth thinking about. most other people are. and most people who are from these kinds of places, stay in these kinds of places forever, because nowhere else is ever really real-feeling to them. not even places as close to foxtown, as Champainge Coast and Lantern Cove are. No one can really believe you, when you're in a place like foxtown, that you've been anywhere else, or that you're going anywhere else. going outside of the town is the same as dissappearing. and people who are from outside, are people who appeared from out of nowhere and just started existing one day from nothing. i could relay metaphors like this to you all day and it still wouldn't be real or believable the way i know it, unless you've lived there. unless you're from there; and were the type of person who, all their life, could think of nothing but escape; the world outside; and who was surrounded always by a field of people who could never understand that desire. Nowadays i'm surrounded by people who can't take stories about foxtown seriously, and who when i try to explain or describe the place, only partly listen, only partly care, and who in their hearts will never think it matters, that i was ever there. I don't know how to make you care, but i hope that you will give me the chance to at least be listened-to on this. believe me, the people in foxtown have never cared about you either, and don't really, in their hearts, even believe that you are real. i know that this doesn't alarm you or make you feel anything other than amused and perhaps discusted, for they are small and the rest of the world is big; and *they* are the fools, for not believing in or listening to what is larger than themselves, is that not correct? but it is hard to go between the two, and be believed in neither place, that you were really there, were really a part of the world on the other side of the veil, even if it was only for a while. Even if you are "here" now. To not care about another person's past is a mean thing, and to imply that *they* should not care either, is even meaner. I've had that attitude cast upon me for a long time now. i can find no one who really gives me the chance to explain; it takes a story of massive and almost heartbreaking shock-value about the place, for anyone to pay attention, to believe that i am talking about a place that is, yes really is, both different from this one and actually really there. we seem to have a chronic inability to believe, that what we cannot see right in front of us with our own eyes, is actually real. This seems to be the case in more places than one... We also can't seem to understand that anywhere on the actual physical planet earth, really is actually different from this place that we are in, this part of it that we are in right here and now. we think we know what the world is like from having lived in it. we do not. the only thing we should have learned by now, is that we can't know anything about the world, just from having lived here.

the other company

that funny little company i supposedly work for; every time i show up at their meetings, in fact every time i go to their office at all, there's something very memorable that i see or hear or that someone tells me or announces. what i'm supposed to be doing for this company, in terms of "work," is going out and getting other recruits for the company, getting my friends and relatives to sit with one of the representatives of the company so they'll either buy the product or be recruited themselves, trying to find people who seem like they'd be able to get their friends to either sell the product or recruit others who can, and buying the product myself. Nightengale calls it a pyramid scheme. I tried to tell him that it's not, that it's "network marketing," and he replied, "oh, network marketing; pyramid schemes, they're all the same." i only sigh. i forget that that company even exists sometimes. it was really disheartening and dissapointing, when i got accepted into that company, and the "job" i thought i would be getting wasn't going to be paying any money; that all these other people in this company have other jobs, that i would be asked whether i'm "part-time" and that that would be referring to some other job, and that this whole thing was alot less like a job and alot more like just a big damn game. now, if i were the kind of person who would be good at this game, then yes i would be making money. but i'm not them, it turns out. there *are* some folks who can make money at this; i turn out not to be one of them. the company is very much not about the product; it's very much all about getting more people to join the company. eventually someone sells something; but it doesn't even really make sense to even work that hard at selling the stuff yourself, because you make so much more money if not you, but someone you recruited sold it; and more if it was someone who *they* recruited, and so on. there's someone way up at the top whose got money pouring into his pockets every hour of the day while he's just sitting there. now, this is not a pyramid scheme: a pyramid scheme means there's no way for a person at the bottom to get to the top; and the only ones who ever benefit are the ones who constructed the pyramid. this, at least, is from what i understand. Network marketing means that every one of us knows a certain number of people, our friends, fam, whoever, and they become your "market" when you join this thing, and they either get involved or they become customers; and the bigger the market, the richer everyone can get. this works great for some personality types; and people who are willing to totally adopt that mindset and outlook. if you have any qualms or hesitations though, you're screwed; it won't work. you have to become a willing ant to the system or you'll be stumped and you won't get any further. those who can, those who are; they have alot of fun-- it's wierd how much fun they have, in fact. you should just see them; and it's so authentic-seeming the way they glorify the company and talk about their work. i wanted to be there so bad; i was willing to do anything, really anything, to get a job i liked like that. i was desperate for money and willing to do just about anything to get it, and actually doing something *enjoyable* seemed like better than i could have even hoped for. but they asked too much. i can't become that. i would have, if i could have done so; but i'm not the one they want. bless them that are, i'm not one... Every time i go after a job and fail, there's this brief window, right before i fall, in which i'm seeing the world through the eyes of a different person; this job-title that i never thought would be mine, and i invision myself as this totally other person i've never been and i feel lifted, elevated, like i found my keyhole, my role or someone to act as in this life. and then i'm let go from that position, and i'm back on the concrete again and the world is nothing but grey and brown buildings and paranoid-faced people who are also making next to no income and have nothing that they're looking for but money.

last week

last week i was getting somewhat irritated. it started with the rain and with a job opening at a gallery down in Cloud Mountain. now, the last thing i've ever wanted is a job that has anything to do with a gallery, but, being that it is and i was still being paid $6 and hour under the table and only part time by the glass studio, i made up a resume and dropped it off at the gallery in Cloud, with them telling me, their eyes full of suprise to see me, that the job doesn't actually start accepting applications for a month. They took the resume anyway. Two days later i get laid off from my job at the glass studio. Limetown is harsh, the majority of businesses honestly don't make it. My employer had to lay off everyone; funds are just too thin. She's done this before and something tells me she'll be calling me back sometime in the future. I didn't let it bother me until the following day when i began my frantic job searching on the web. I had been called back by a publishing house that i'd sent my resume to a few weeks ago, they had warned me that the job was an hour and a half away from me but i told them i was looking to relocate anyway, so they scheduled me for an editor test. i was able to get online to download the paperwork only just the day before the test, on which form i found that they wanted someone familiar with the Chicago Manual of Style and the American Psychological Association guide to writing or some titles of that kind. I checked out the two from the library and tried hurriedly to read them during a single afternoon, and in the Chicago manual i actually read something interesting: over and over in that book it emphasized "words worthy of going into print," "ideas worth printing," text that is "worth printing." The reason i found these phrases interesting, that whole vantage-point on writing, the vantage point of the publisher of text; was that it reminded me of something i'd forgotten, or hadn't thought of for a long time; that writing, in a sense, is both a luxury and a necessity; a luxury when looked at in one way, a necessity in another, the same way spoken language is. Printing words for everyone to see, in a way, is a vital task that must be done for certain words... why does it suprise me, sometimes, when it occurs to me or i am reminded of it, that written words still hold some kind of sacred significance, that it's not all just flashing black lines on paper and computer screens that people pay for sometimes and not other times? This, and the words of Philip Roth; that writing is a way of thinking, not a record of previously-had thoughts, have behaved like strangely invaluable reminders, waking me up, in a way, to what i knew before but which has been drowned out over the years, by a dominant culture which screams every thought as it comes into its head. I took the editor test the following day. Failed. My spelling still sucks ass the way it always did in bloody grade-school... They said i did better on the "more difficult" part of the test, which involved finding zillions of little errors in an error-ridden text, so they said that i could take the test again... six months from now. so, i'm suprisingly unemployed again. applied to work in this bookstore where i sit, and where i already spend a good number of hours... and searching online again, over and over and over day after day, wondering if any of the people behind any of these online job-postings actually exist, that publishing house was i think the second-ever response i ever got from a job posting, the first being a goth club that contacted me back to apologize that painting the walls of the place was actually not what they meant to advertize; but they wanted people to exhibit art there. that place actually became the first place i ever exhibited my art in, and my friends in SandGun later would both show their art there as well. The three of us would also, as fate would have it, later show up at the place just to dance, get smashing drunk, almost get into fights with smashing drunk goths and their friends, and have a number of freak-friendly experiences... Well, getting back to the story i thought i was telling when i began this, searching for money and for work of pretty much any kind has been the miserable obsession of the last few days, moving the other projects i was engaged in behind. it's really annoying how that freakish need to get re-employed shows up again every other month... just when i think that i'm set for one job or another for a while, then something happens and it turns out i'm not going to have a reliable income after all, and i have to panic again just because i guess that's what people are supposed to do when this happens... it's kind of hard not to... it's also kind of hard to understand how this keeps happening to me: how i manage, even after all this while, to still not have a goddamn job. Now Charlie Nightengale came home and told me that his daughter's friends who have a photo-develloping place are going to hire me and i absolutelly could not take him seriously. this would be, what, the 8th time he's told me he had a job-hookup for me that turned out not just to be bogus but to be hilariously beyond-bogus... he himself has been unemployed for a number of months now and is also applying to borders. oy. it's not that i need that much money, it's just that it's so much more reassuring knowing your funds are going up instead of down. sigh. i should have known the glass-shop gig wasn't going to last... maybe i'm not meant to find a job yet; the only thing i seem to excell at is staying unemployed.

the book store

here i am again in the book store. i applied to work here the other day but i don't expect to hear back from them about that for a while. i like this place a lot more on mondays and tuesdays, because it's not so crowded. at times you find yourself wondering, when you're in a borders on a monday, whether all the other people who are in there reading books are employed or not, or whether they just have the day off or something. and you also wonder about the types of people, myself included, who choose to spend their days off, or their unemployed days, in a bookstore. i do notice that it's a slightly more scholarly-looking crowd, who i see in borders on mondays and tuesdays. i never know what i must look like to the other folks around; some days i show up looking like a bookworm, like the way i imagine Caliway must look, and then there's other times when i look much more bohemian, much more gypsy-ish, and i imagine that i appear to people as one of my other semi-professional titles. it's funny how differently people look at me, and respond to me, from day to day, depending on what, or who, i look like. sometimes i just can't tell, and i don't think anyone else can either, what i appear to be. sometimes i just don't try. other times i try too hard and wind up with people thinking they're talking to someone completelly not myself. i often am unrecognized, by people who thought they were talking to me the day before. and here i am blowing my cover, if there was any cover to be blown, about the whole thing. it is sort of a constant interest, and a constant mystery, to me, which i come upon or which catches up on me often; the question of names and identities. i never wanted, in the beginning, to be anyone but myself, or the one i thought i was when it all began. but people see a person draw and they think they're seeing an artist, and when the person is writing later people go "why is that artist writing? why isn't she doing what she loves to do and what she does best: drawing?" and it becomes all complicated. i turn out to have too many talents for people to believe i have, or for people to have patience in meeting. lots of people seem to encounter me through one or the other of my talents and then think of me that way forever after, and this makes it hard for me to talk truthfully to them about my life because it's never a complete picture of my actual activities. i've had troubles with my reputation since i was little; in fact i still remember in second grade i wanted to actually hide my drawings from people, because it was so annoying to be permanently and universally identified with only one of my traits, and not even the most important one. i keep thinking it wouldn't be this hard if only people were more willing to believe you, when you tried to explain to them about who you are and what you do. another difficulty is that people don't seem to like to read, and people can't avoid seeing visuals. we're very visual, here in this culture, and so people think that i'm a strictly visual creator. it's unfortunate and irritating to be thought of that way and i can always tell when someone thinks of me that way, because they get into this two-dimensional speak-pattern with me and never go into depth about anything, and then they reveal that they don't think of me as a very brainy person, or a very deep-thinking person; and it's all because they don't think of visual artists that way. it's really hilarious how frequently this happens. so now i'm juggling these multiple identites, trying to manufacture masks for myself so that i can be seen for the first time, even if it's in pieces and on different continents. and it's a very strange process and not one for which i know where to possibly find guidance, except in that very strange habit people have, and continue to have, of responding only to the images of people, images which they already have in their imaginations, images with stories already told, lives already lived, loves and events and even a private death, already occurred and over in the imaginations of everyone. always we are walking around in this twilight-world, talking not to people but to visions cast on the rippling cell walls of our own imaginations, responding to and being spoken to by shadow-images, hollow shells without inhabitants or which have been empty for many years, and meanwhile all the people, the actual thinkers and the ones who actually live, the ones whose lives and deaths are actually meaningful; actually change things; lie sleeping far beneath them in a quiet pit; seeing nothing and looking nowhere around themselves, quietly letting shadows do the talking, keeping to themselves all the makings of this world, and any other.

rain

i need it to rain again. last week there was rain and it brought us closer together. it was inspiring, like a challenge. now things are bright and sunny like normal and nothing motivates me. it feels like nothing's worth going for, today. yesterday i was having trouble thinking of things to do, and last week i was wondering where i'd find enough days to do all the things there were to do. i suppose it shows, since here i am writing again; i guess i don't write as much while i feel motivated to do other things. i made a sort of itinerary for myself, of things i wanted to accomplish within the week. half of them remain undone and tomorrow will have been the last day on that itinerary. not that those kinds of self-imposed obligations are worth feeling too guilty over, it's just kind of funny how the world has turned over, how differently everything feels and looks, with just the absence of the rain... or whatever else it was that was hanging over last week, that made things so much more interesting...

week

it's funny how a week can frame-off time, become its own world. last week was a funny world, and i don't feel like i live there anymore, like we've transitioned into a different dimension by changing weeks. to think, one day i will experience my last week, and then there will be no more weeks on earth, for me at least. thinking about death reminds me of science fiction sometimes; like a last week on earth, like you're about to begin your adventure story in another solar system or something. here i am rambling when i had an actual story to relate; it must be that time of morning, or the state my body is in. i put it through half a bottle of popovs last night and don't remember much of the result, but found some ugliness staining the bathroom rug this morning to give me an idea... i have the funniest thoughts while coming back to the world from a state of utter drunken debauchery; some of my best have come at that time. i've never had an idea come to me in the shower but i've had plenty that have come to me while slowly recovering from being hungover.

exhaust

i'm exhausted this morning, and my fingers quake at the keyboard. i can always tell, by holding my hands up to the light, how my blood is doing by how steady my fingers remain. sometimes i can just feel in my gut, in my forehead, in the very way my eyesight blurrs, that last night was a hellish one for my body, even if my memory doesn't say so.

Monday, October 18, 2004

psychologist

i'll actually be seeing a psychologist today! i was directed to her by a psychologist i met at a party a few months ago in Limetown. I never knew where to start about finding myself a shrink, but i somehow knew in the back of my head, some leftover realization from the desert, that i'd be needing one sooner or later, or that the time was soon when it would become a good idea to talk to one... While i guess i wouldn't highlight myself as the world's mentally-healthiest person, i never thought that i would be needing to go to a psychologist for help; i guess i've always had a stereotype in my head, of people who go for psychological counselling as people really on the edge or who can't take care of their own problems themselves; people going to a shrink as their last ditch effort... But nonetheless here i am, hopeful that this will turn out fruitful...

language

i've begun the process of teaching myself German. I don't know quite why, actually it stemms from being in a country where it is spoken, and feeling so heinously stupid for not knowing what simple-sounding little words here and there meant. The first time i was ever in a non-English speaking country was a few weeks ago, and the presiding language of the place was Czech. I had had the presence of mind, before going, to at least teach myself what the little hellos and goodbyes and may i help you's were; i felt as though i had done as much as i could do in the time i had before i left, about that language... but i felt wierd not knowing more; i felt very annoyed with myself, not to know more... and then there i was in Austria, and i was utterly nowhere with German, and that made me feel just straight up dumb. Before i go back to that continent, i hope to have at least a basic simple understanding of German greetings and such things; and i'll possibly pursue the same for Russian and Italian, neither of which i know ANYthing about. It didn't matter to me, the way it seemed to matter to other Americans both here and over there, that English was known by most educated people. The fact that most Europeans know English seems to make most Americans think it's a waste of time to learn any other language. I have the opposite reaction, just by nature; it feels to me that i ought to be putting effort into French and Spanish, Italian and German and Russian at the VERY least, and then perhaps Czech and Swedish and Polish and Gaelic and a few others if i can manage to get around to it... I don't know how many languages my brain can possibly hold, but i'm willing to test it out if time will allow... In all likelihood it will be time, and not my mind, which will limit me in what languages i'm able to get into, in any in-depth way. I was actually a little suprized, how big of a deal the "language thing" was, in Europe. It was a constant issue to me, actually. Every new encounter, every new person i ran into; it was always the first and most major issue to confront; whether they spoke any language i knew and whether i spoke any language they knew and how much of each language either of us knew and how to get around the words either of us were bound not to know of the other's language, not to mention whether our pronounciation of the other's language would even be understood by the native speaker. Cultural differences would probably be the second biggest issue i ran into, but i don't know where i'd go to begin tackling that problem. it could be just that i'm not used to my language skills' being insufficient to communicate... But at the moment i don't actually think that's the likely truth of the matter, or the best answer to this compulsive need to educate myself, in what it feels like i've been missing or lacking all this time.

too much

when a weight is growing like a solid thing, yet exists as only thought, as though fighting its way through flesh within the chest's own cavity...

organized

it isn't fair; i can't get organized. there's always too much to write about and never a way to get it all down. i feel compelled to make a record of everything i see and do and am touched by these days, but by the time i ever get to a place where i can write it, several hundred other things have come to pass and that past is far, far away, almost out of reach... today that same compulsion is coupled with an urge to shred certain fucker's brains into a bloody puss, and i don't even have the energy to elaborate on why... probably if i were to try to begin to explain it to you, you would think i'm being silly or illogical. things are making me hellishly angry and i'm not sure why. here i am shedding tears over a computer in borders, where you're not supposed to be shedding tears, or giving off emotions at all, when it comes down to it...

frail?

Am i just frail today? i wake up into a world i never thought i'd live in. i never thought of myself as bitter mean girl, but today all i want to do is rip other's throaghts out and rub them all over the floor.

frail?

i find it hard to find a middle ground anywhere... i find it hard to locate where i stand or where i am-- just when things are starting to look ok, that's when i find myself in the place where i just want to rip everything apart-- i wish there was at least some physiological excuse or explanation for all this madness so at least i wouldn't wonder everyday, so then at least there would seem to be some cause, some meaning or some point above it all....

fuck

(#&%#((*$)@*#)!@*#(@&$()@*$)@(#)@()#*&@#)$%*@#()$%)!@#($(@#&$%*#$%()*@#$(%&@#()$(%)!@#&%()@#*($)@#)%&!@#)%*!@)%*)@#*$)!@#*%(#$&^(@!&$)!*$)@!*&#%(*@#$)(*!@#$(&%)@!(#$%(@#$&%)!@(*#$%(&$)%*!)@*$&(!$%&)!@($)&$(&*#$%)#($)&#@!%(&@#)$(*(@!&#%(#*@$^(&%$#(*@#)($*&($@#%&)@#$*((&(*)#!(@_$)(@!)&*#%(!&^%)$^(_$%^)%)&^%($#&^%(#&%@)($(^)_%)(*$(#@&$(*@#)(%^&$#(%*)#@$*%&($#&^)@#($%&#$()%*)@!#($)!#@*$(#@&$%()@(#*$%)(@)#$%&*$(#%)!@($)#@%&($*%)@#($*%)@#$%*)@#*$%#)@&*)$!

Thursday, October 14, 2004

day

Somewhat laborious day at the glass studio today. My work seemed to have left my employer unhappy; of the objects in the scene we mosaiced today, each of the ones i did gave her some difficulty; either they were the wrong color, or the wrong shape, or were constructed using the wrong size pieces than she intended. Each of the parts of the thing that i worked on today had to be partly undone, or will have to be entirely redone. I uncomplainingly started the process of prying apart the area i was creating, during the second half of the day. When the end of the day came, and my employer came to look over my shoulder at the half-removed glass pieces there, I joked that maybe I'll wind up taking the whole thing off I don't know, and she laughed particularly hyperly and said that she thought I should just take the whole thing apart and redo it with larger pieces. I said I'd do that tomorrow and left the piece as it was. In the car I go by fancy gardens and front yards with elaborate or normal trees, my eye catches ten thousand nuances in every branch and leaf, and I sigh, thinking that glass turns out not to be the best format in which to express these essences; the best i can do with it is only *sometimes* the best way to use the stuff. I sigh again thinking sometimes i have good days and sometimes i don't have such good days in that shop, and that it never really was "about" the glass. I mean, every time I would get carried away with glass in that place; that is, every time I would start treating glass with abandon, like it was like any other art substance, I would seem to get yelled at for mistreating the instruments or wasting the supplies-- like the experience of really getting full throttle into the "art" of it, got me to a place that was outside of practicality, or left me in a place where the actual process was in the way, or where my inexperience was causing me to inappropriatelly use the objects actually in my hands...

desires and dreams

I reappear on Cloud Mountain, as I always have. Here i am again to escape the life I was beginning to sink back into, the life I have in Limetown. It is dangerous, my thoughts during the drive tell me, to let myself become a part of any one, single life. These days i am always thinking both forwards and backwards; forwards with penatrating, furious curiosity to determine what is there that i must be going towards now; and backwards in desparation to the past, trying to find what it was that was there all along, what clue i had as to what my life would be like, before all of this happened; before these columned buildings standing on Cloud Mountain claimed my life and drove me here, before the excommunication and my subsequent bantering about sad Limetown, before the mad events of this summer and this september, the storms, the fools, the forests... I think back and try to recall what it was I thought I would be doing after college, before I entered it. My memory is vague, and from what i recall, my vision of possible futures was even vaguer. Of the things i can recall, the images of what my life would look like, the vision that comes up most often is that of a constant shifting; a constantly changing life; a life made of many myriad different lives all being experienced simultaneously. I imagined travelling between points on a map as transversing between separate worlds; as though they were separate versions of myself. I had dreamed the most, above other things, of being a person of many goals and many faces, many places in which i live, many fellows in different places; different projects to work on, different friends and families in different lands, and slipping easilly between them... at least, that is what my current self sees, when it looks upon that self of long ago... If that is how, and where, truth is to be found. I find more and more that if i fail to put out an answer, when people ask me "what is it you want to do?" the response i get is "what's your dream job/lifestyle?" and when that fails, they just repeat, with drama: "what is it you DREAM of doing? What would be your Highest HIGHEST ambition/goal/desire?" I find it hard to believe that they could comprehend my "highest highest" ambition/goal/desire, and this kills all possibility of my trying to explain it to them. But if there is any use in looking to one's desires and dreams, for one's best bet as to what one ought to "do", then I suppose I must look back to the last time i can remember having desires and dreams for my life; which was in high school. These days, my desires and dreams for my life are just a long list of negatives; i don't want to live in Lime anymore, i don't want to live with roaches, etc., and this evidently is not enough. I just can't seem to positively imagine a future life for myself; not one that I'm satisfied with. All my attempts to imagine up a daily routine/dream job for myself leave me with an image which, very rapidly after conception, begins to whither and deteriorate from desire, look burdensome and boring, and finally repulsive, even the opposite of the way i would want to live. And the people still criticize me for not having dreams, for not having goals and moving towards them, for not having a vision and focusing in on it, for not "going for it." But truly, it's amazing how it works; I could sit down and try to fathom up a dream house for myself, or a dream job, down to the last detail; but the fucking thing becomes repulsive, abhorrently so, almost the second it's complete. The first thing a leader has to have, so i am told, is a "perfectly clear vision" of what they're after. I suppose I am hopeless on this note. But again, when i drive through those tracks between sad little Limetown and selfish little Cloud Mountain, and i happen to have in the radio a tape i made in high school, when i was dreaming in foxtown of living in a place where i could hear techno music (my ambitions were so modest then, it seems now) the closest music resembling techno which i had access to... I recall a strong desire from afar, from which i have far drifted in these times; a desire simply, more or less, to float. I have no desire for one single dream house or dream job. Fuckers need to realize that or fuck off. My dream is not to have only one house or job. My dream is to get my jobs done. Fuckers never will be able to comprehend that, I fear, and I therefore am wasting my time trying to explain. My Company, that pretty little organization of which I'm still supposedly a member, lectures us each week that we need to go after our "desires and dreams," and then perhaps will come a list of what those things might be, and they go something like this: a new house, a new car, school for the kids, new TV, new sofa, new carpet in the living room, vacation and travel... And soon the room is nodding and making the faint sounds of desire, and I am thinking "that's all you fucking want?? That's what all this is about, that's what all your efforts are over, just a pile of trash??" The CEO talks are interesting. I'm sure that my inner reactions to them are nothing like what the intended effect is supposed to be.

Wednesday, October 13, 2004

the story of september

i will go backwards, for the first things to enter my head are the last things to have occured this fall; and fall has only just begun. i got off a phonecall from my father about 20 minutes ago. he called because he wanted to know when i would be returning to my insurance classes. i didn't actually know he was so urgent about that. he kept reiterating that it was "very practical" and finally said "and you're going to need it" with a hearty laugh. i haven't been taking more insurance classes. the reason is i haven't been in this state... practically i haven't been in this universe; but explaining this to him was going to be tricky, so i immediatelly rushed into the explanation of the webpage i had been building; the webpage i essentially just arrived back on earth from. it took a while and i had to give him the link and walk through what exactly it was and what was going on on it, but finally it dawned on him that this web portfolio had indeed been "very constructive." I rapidly started detailing that it had taken all weekend to create, which had been performed at the house of a friend of mine from college who resides in the mountains high above Limetown and the Champaigne Universe, I tried to illustrate how much effort had gone into it, that it had occupied this whole weekend and that i haven't had any time to think about insurance. He finally settled down but resumed his argument that i ought to schedule the next licensing exam as soon as possible, that that would be the necessary thing "to fall back on" while i'm doing "the art thing." He also took a moment to grumble that my going to Europe for 2 weeks "got in the way" of my pursuing insurance. He doesn't like that i went to Europe. Either that, or he doesn't like that I went to Europe with Mother. I had just sat down in IHOP when I returned his two worried messages. I had been in no mood to check my cell the last few days, not while i was up in the hills, where the beams and rays of Champaigne don't reach anyhow. I had found both his messages and those of others, all worried about where I'd dissappeared to, when i finally checked my phone on the last day. It kind of made me laugh to hear it: why should they be worried about me? I'm always nowhere. I'm never in one place; seeing me in one place at a time is always just an illusion. i am juggling universes on my shoulders always, and they are growing heavier with time, chewing into me. They shouldn't worry about me so much. there's no way i could stay in one place for long if i tried; i am the citizen of too many different places at this time. In any case, i had just driven back to Clear Mountain, descending from that larger strip of mountains, The Alchaves, which long divided my life in half between its past and future, and which now just divide the Desert, which bleakens this sour continent. Buried in those hills rests the city I'll call SandGun. Down I had plunged into the valley of Champaigne ghosts, and it seemed for all the world that I was plummeting into a bowl of poison; the air turned suddenly brown in every direction as i neared the City. It was the same vicious brown that had assaulted us, as the plane had descended from its long trek from Germany. (i'll keep other country names the same-- no point in shielding those from the curious eyes of idle surfers, i assume.) Now as i sit here, buried perhaps in mountanous layers of that filth, i cannot see it; it has blended back into the background, forgotten itself in the back of my awareness again, where it always hides. Oh how crystalline the peaks are in which crouch the little houses, clutching onto stones on slopes, in SandGun. How curious this place lies exactly between the place i'm from, and the place i may be going; right along its border made of upheaved stone. How much more curious, that my family of elves, whose names i will imagine-up later, my two who left my school with me, are living there-- are a part of the place. In their living room I sat this morning, none of us having slept the night, and the guy was telling me the story of a crime, and the gal was wearing a hat i had made. All that night the gal had worn that hat as she pried into the computer screen, a cigarette occassionally ornamenting one hand as she blasted through code with the other. By the end of the night's work i had a webpage; my much-needed, long-awaited web portfolio, and my sweet dears had constructed and provided it for me for free. i could not thank them enough and they only thanked me for visiting them at last, as i hugged them both goodbye. many things i could say about this couple, but all of them would be too flattering and too lengthy for the interests of my tale, especially in the fresh embers of such a time together. We are like family; that is how i often think of them, these two folks i met in college long ago... They resemble both my past world and my desired, my longed-for future one at once, and they don't expect anything of me or ask me to be anything else than i am... and we seem to delight mutually in each other's company; i could go on but i would drift myself to tears if i did now... Their poor house is under seige, however, and every new time i return to it i feel the shaking of its foundation more and more sturdilly. the man is one of those i've heard called "Other": he can see things which we mortal/humans aren't supposed to, and he knows things about things he can't possibly know about--- this was the overly-simple explanation of an "Other" which was given me so long ago, when i was presented the title. there is no doubt in my mind anymore that he is a sorceror, although i'd be shy to say that to him and i'm not sure he'd accept it if i did; we all think sorcerors don't have any problems, because they are magical and can solve them-- but that turns out not to be the point, nor the speciality, of a sorceror... Not, in any case, of any of the sorcerors i've known. I spent three nights with them, and i saw their daily difficulties with more clarity than i had before; i tend to glorify and glamorize this couple, i know... It is hard to see the 'reality' in some people-- usually in the people who seem to present a relief to reality, as you know it... It is merely a matter of wishing you didn't have to see it; of wishing, on their behalf, that they could be the one couple who could be spared it. Such wishes go nowhere. The house is crumbling from inside out... they are being slowly and forcefully removed from it-- and they are angry at their very shelter and the walls around them, at the way in which they must live, a semi-life, until they are fully removed. They are being removed, i am told, for that very same reason for which i find them home; because they are not like most folks, and never could be. Someone has entered and passed a judgement that they do not belong there, that they are not the most profitable inhabitants for the structure. I would be in rage too. There is no hope in cleaning the place; they both have the will to leave it in utter shambles and destruction when they go, just to slap that unwelcome judgement in the face. I have kissed the both of them now, and i have kept them in my thoughts. They wanted to see me when I arrived back from Europe, they insisted I come up the mountain and spend some days. They couldn't wait to see the pictures, to hear what it had been like. I had been working back in the Angel Glass Studio, the first few days after landing back in Limetown. I had returned to some interesting news: we were being considered for a commission by the city of Cloud Mountain. my elvish friends of SandGun knew the significance. My father couldn't understand what it meant. I had three drawings to show the board representative by the end of my first day back in the studio, which my employer delightedly told me later had impressed him immensely. I may have a quite massive commission on my hands in the near future, unless it is given to a certain someone in Lemuria... The folks in Angel Glass have been paying me a little here and there to design windows and mosaics and murals and things for the shop. Things seem to be going well for our little glass shop, especially so if we are granted this commission. I am starting to feel more a part of that little studio, more attuned to its goings-on, its facets of operation. I care more about the projects coming out of it. it is my hope that we are given this chance to prove ourselves; a 30-foot mosaic mural, to be prominently displayed in one of the prettiest little college towns on this edge of the continent. Little was mentioned about Europe, the first day I got back into the shop. There was so much else to talk about to do with commissions and projects, and my employer had almost been caught up in a hurricaine herself, on a little vacation she had taken at the same time. I slept a whole day, after the plane landed and my Mom had dropped my off back in Limetown. I was still on Frankfurt time for a few days after coming back into the land of Champaigne and Dynamite.