Today is my last day of retail. 

I am albeit thrilled to call off my time at the mall and ratting around the frozen yogurt store after my shift. This means nights, weekends, and time for better art. Again, thrilled.

Unfortunately, while I give birth to a new career, I watch things die today: a young man, a marriage. The gent is most certainly gone, the marriage, still might pull it out. 

The young man: Note to self- never proclaim to an armed gunman multiple times, “Your gun will not fire.” As proven, an easy mugging ended in total disaster, and now one more reason not to engage in proclaiming things away. Guns will fire, people will die, tornadoes will annihilate. Someone is unfortunately having one hell of a year. My prayers go out to you.

The marriage: This particularly kills me, as these things are immortal and sacred whispers. These oaths we swear in front of God and family confirm what we assure each other- ’til I pop you in the ground, you’re all I want. If he holds steadfast… that might brace them in this gail.

I am unfortnunately afraid this blog is steadfastly transitioning to a fail blog.  I guess a small part of me still thinks writing out my inner twistings will somehow straighten out the pipes.  I hope I’m right…

I have joined twitter.  I was advised it was a sharp move for my career, although I’m beginning to question the logic.  I have had several magazines follow me, good culture and art magazines from Montreal, San Fransisco, and someone in Dallas, an illustration blogger in Israel.  I was noticing for all this new attention, I am only capping at 14 followers; I investigated, in turn to find that all of these people have completely rid themselves of me.  Some are following thousands of people, but they have no interest in adding me permanently to their numbers.  I am beside myself.  I have checked- these are bonafide peoples.  What am I then?? 

I have a facebook page (again, good for my career, right?) and no one likes it.  That’s right, zero fans.  I WANT to be better.  I want my work to be fresh and fun.  Mostly I want to not be afraid.  These people have not directly told me “You suck,” and I’m ready to crumple.  I hate still being afraid.  When does it get easier?  When will my work look more mature?  Maybe I’m not cut out for this- really, I am not seeing consistent work (most of which is unpaid, rule #1 of surviving on skill), I am not consistent in my work, I am still learning many processes most people have already,  ….

You know what?  Let’s stop this.  I am a personable girl and people are constantly charmed by me genuine nature.  I have made some wonderful connections based on that alone.  I am colorful, cute, round, and quirky in my execution.  I am surrounded by extremely talented friends who would give me any amount of criticism I could manage (and then some).  I have brilliant instructors that want to hear of my progress and successes/failures.  I have plenty of inspiration to glean from those around me.  I AM STILL NEW TO THIS GAME.  I haven’t been computer savvy for years, nor have I had an impressive web presence, but that’s okay!  I have learned how to managed my time, work quickly, find fast and reliable solutions, met interesting people.  I live in the Midwest, which is not at the moment the land of opportunity.  The odds are against me to win, but I may just succeed.  

It’s not over.  Thanks for the ear.

I am becoming completely and totally unhinged.  There, I said it.

This naked rambling of mine is raw and is, unfortunately, exceedingly true.  

I am losing it.  

As I have come to find out, it is that thing allowing us to function well within society’s confines.  I am becoming angry, brash, proud, and everything is sweeping farther and farther away into black as I struggle to maintain the bare necessities of living in Western American culture.  I am finding this lack of self-provision is enabling boat loads of lament, self pity, inadequacy, and a general prickliness I haven’t seen in years.  Of course the French revolted when they couldn’t feed themselves….  It all makes so much sense now.

Jarrod doesn’t understand his role within my depression.  His interest in shouldering this burden with me seems aloof and narrow.  I need practical answers, to know what is true right now.  I don’t need to know how countless others are suffering the same dilemma somewhere out in the intangible universe.  I need to honestly know I matter, I am good at what I do, I am striving for the right path.  If I threaten to throw myself in front of a bus, it might get his attention.  [Aside: the only reason I haven't considered this yet is because I don't think it would outright kill me.]

I spent all morning sloughing through prayer after prayer for help, for aid.  Apparently my idioms became lost in translation on the way Upstairs.  One week of stretching turned into two, three, a month of really stretching, holding onto those kite wires that are so damn thin.  Basics.  Food.  Gas.  Shelter.  How far can I stretch those around me- I’m not the only one feeling the burn, a simple reality making it all ten times worse.  

How am I supposed to get married this year?  How is that possible?  I cannot feed myself, but let’s feed eighty of our friends.  That’s a great idea.

Help.  Help.  Help.  Help.  Help.  Help.  Help.  Help.  help.  help.  help.  help. help. help. help. help.help.help.help.help.help.helphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelp This is ridiculous.  I matter.  I must if I’m still here.  I’m below the poverty line.  I am still here.  I can make it.  I don’t know how.  Can my art make it?  I don’t know how.  I can’t do this alone.  I am alone.  No one understands where this is going.  I can’t go out.  I have to stay here.  I can’t find anything else.  Where will I go?  How long before Mel throws me out?  Can she take this much longer?  

… where THE FUCK are you?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

…. why are there only echoes?

I’ve always considered myself a circle girl, at least growing up.  The most desirable pegs had snuggling, circular holes to inhabit, the most intriguing sports utilized rubber balls, and my favorite flavor (blue raspberry) was a delectibly mythical fruit comprised of rounded juice capsules.  Circular reasoning put a bead of distaste in my mouth for the shape, and in college I happened [by force, mind you] on the straightforward square.  After embracing my inner creative, I opted for the rounded square, a modern and progressive variant on the black-and-white rectilinear tendency. 

Despite my preferences, it seems life has afforded one consistent shape: the triangle, mascot of variation.  Damn that change.

And so it goes [he said some time ago], I bowed out almost two months ago as a food service survivor.  Thank God, my foxhole was almost swallowed by ineptitude and bad business.  With several scratches and lessons learned, I’ve taken to the streets. 

I want to be an art director.

I hesitate to confess a deep desire to write a book, not because it is expected of me but because I fear I never will.  I am writing regularly in two journals- one corresponding to a friend far away, the other to, well, a secret audience.  Though these outlets may keep the bug at bay, I wish to someday record some very specific thoughts for a potentially captive audience. 

I am far too young to see my thoughts graduate from theory to thermodynamic law, so I must persist in my non-writing.  I am building the infrastructure at the moment, but as all good builders, I know the inevitable name:  Seeds.  Keep posted in fifteen or so years, I suppose.

Wiliam Tell

Stood to face me in the dark,

an apple on his head,

and begged a warning

from my small-barreled pistol lips.

A bullet in my teeth

I clentched

the trigger

wrapped around my chest.

A shot,

a spatter

was all for show,

rounds blank as my face.

I turned,

a trickle,

then on his knees

he fell there in my place.

If I would climb to the moon,
A thousand splinters would be my gain.
The ladder I use is still rough and unhewn. 

Still shaping my dreams.  Still looking.

Post college apocalypse, Day 158

And with our pockets full of rocks, we all fall down.

At least some of us.  We are falling hard.

Where is the philosopher?  Where is the songbird?  They are drowned in the drink; they are washed in their shame; they are saturated in the emptiness of their beds night after night.  Where is their insight?  It is lost.  Where is their dance with the heavens?  It is forgotten.

Stupidity is their king.  Lawlessness rules us all.

I mourn you.  Please come back.  You are never too late.

Unlike the one leading to my living room, the side door at work is noiseless with exception of one faint, prolonged creak.  This is the alert to all upper management that again I have arrived approximately three minutes late.  As if the sleek glass didn’t give away my stealthy arrival, the metallic frame and lock only enhance my entrance and the entrance/exit of several hundred people during the course of the day.

My tried and true vintage wooden door is another story, as most doors are.  The brassy handle has to be forced open and shut with a series of staccato thwack!s, alerting everyone to my arrival home, and the arrival/departure of many friends blowing through on the wind.

I am covered in doors.  I have been assured for the past two years of the perpetual revolving door set firmly in my frame of reference.  I crave the root of an open passage.  I want consistency, things properly in their place.  I want to know where I’m going, what I’m doing, who will pull me through time….  But when all I desire is attained, will I become restless once more?  Will I be fulfilled where I am?

To pull the door shut behind me- that is my greatest concern.  If I am still restless, I pray for an open window, or the courage to jump through a closed one.