I’ve been going through a crisis of sorts lately, which may be why I have not felt the urge to write. Actually, I have indeed feel the urge. The problem is, I have much to say and no organizational skills whatsoever.
I will attempt to start at the beginning and work my way through my thought processes in a logical manner, but please make an effort to keep up. I understand you have no road map, but if my family has gotten used to following my mind as it wanders all about town, I really think that you, my reading public, should be able to keep up with the class.
You see, I sometimes feel like I’m being consumed by a person who isn’t me.
I feel as if the creative side of me is lost. I sang with a band the other night and it had been so long that it was almost as if I was hearing somebody else. I barely recognized my own voice. Music used to be everything to me. I thought I could not live if I were not making music in some form or fashion. Now, I listen to the CD player in my car and imagine what fun it must have been recording that album and how I really wish I had written that song because it says exactly what I meant to say when I was talking to my friends the other night.
I don’t even usually bother to look in the mirror as I’m getting dressed each morning for my meaningless Corporate America job at Friendly Flower Place. Once I know my skirt isn’t tucked in to the top of my panties, I look away. I just…can’t. Who is that person with the make-up on and the high-heeled shoes and the fuckin’ business suit?
Granted, I only wear suits when I know I will be having meetings with Big Wig Motherfuckers who, in truth, would really prefer I show my cleavage rather than try to cover it up all the time.
That’s another thing. I mean, I have boobs, people. Sometimes they are going to show a little bit. Fuckin’ deal with it already and stop trying to make me feel guilty or uncomfortable for having them. The fact that you are obsessed with them is your issue and not mine.
Sorry – that bit may have been exclusively for certain people I have worked with over the years…
Even on my non-suit days, I am always dressed…well, dressed, for one. That alone is not my style, quite frankly. But aside from the irritating law that we all have to be clothed when outside the confines of our home, Corporate America dictates what a person can and can not wear to work. Heaven forbid we show the tops of our arms in the conference room!
Christ.
I fuckin’ hate Corporate America. I do not belong here. I have never belonged here. Every day I have to force myself out of bed to come in to the office. I thought I was just getting burned out at my last job and that it would be better once I started the new one. And you know what? It ain’t. Every day I just keep telling myself that 5:00 will be here before I know it…which of course becomes 6:00 or 6:30, as I inevitably get stuck working on a project I can not make myself put down until it is completed. Why must I be punished for being detail-oriented and good with math? Is it my fault than I can fake it so well that they up and made me the Big Boss?
Yeah and about that? Since when am I a math pro? Since when does it make sense to have the English Major who totally got out of her Freshman Algebra class by lying because she just hated doing the homework the person we should have analyzing the Financial Statements of customers requesting credit lines in the millions?
There has been a huge mistake made here, people.
And the thing is, I am stuck. It makes me sick to my stomach to think about it, but I am. Sure, I could go back to school, get my degree and change my career path in like seven years, which is how long it would take to finish school since I would have to continue working and take only 1 or 2 classes at night. But for what? To change my career to what? The things I want to do do not require a Bachelor of Science Degree. They take a modicum of talent and a whole lot of exposure.
I am now an adult (perish the thought!). An adult with bills to pay. An adult who lives with another adult who has more than his fair share of medical problems and if we’re being truthful here we’ll admit that he does not make enough money.
I do, however. I make good money. I make damn good money, truth be told; especially when you consider that I don’t have a degree and have made it a good long way in Corporate America by those old fashioned (and formerly American) values of very hard work and a dash of brains. I don’t even know how to type properly (I type very fast, but with like 3 or four fingers).
And now I am addicted to it. That’s the real problem. I have bills because I bought stuff. Did I need that stuff? I live in a townhouse in a ritzy neighborhood and it’s monthly rent is more than my parents paid in an entire year of mortgage bills once upon a time. Do I really have to live there? I’m even going to buy a house next year, which will bring on a whole new level of pain responsibility.
I do not think I live an excessive life by any means. I mean, I drive a Nissan Sentra. The Old Man rides a motorcycle (he also drives a very old piece of shit Toyota Camry, but his son is borrowing it for a while). I don’t go out and get a massage every month (although I should) and I’ve had like three pedicures in my entire lifetime. But there are many ways in which I could downsize and thus make it easier to ditch my corporate job in the interest of doing something more valuable. Did I really need to go to Alaska and Italy all within the course of like seven months?
OK, yes I did. Travel is one area in which I refuse to downsize. But, you know…I also have a closet full of shoes.
I think I mentioned in my “first” post upon returning to blogging that I recently lost my job and how great it was to find a new job immediately. While all of that is true and on one hand I do feel incredibly lucky, I can not tell you how tempted I was while briefly unemployed to simply ditch my entire life, move to New Mexico and get lost. I would have taken the Old Man with me (and he would have loved to go), but he would have been the only one.
But…you know…responsibilities. Who’s gonna pay my bills when I get a job waiting tables? And what about my retirement, which I care more about than I ever would have imagined? Who is going to contribute 10% of their income to that fund when I am making minimum wage at some tequila bar?
And what about the four wine clubs I belong to???
There are also family responsibilities. I love my family more than anything and they really are the coolest people on the planet, but sometimes being so close to them can be a drawback…like when I want to disappear in to the mountains and they keep calling me, asking how I am, when I’m coming home and am I wearing a sweater?
It totally would have been cool, though, to run away. Even if I would have had to give up the wine clubs and opt for two-buck-chuck. I was this close.
Another option I considered was going to work for Habitat for Humanity or some other organization I care about and who I feel actually does some meaningful, valid work on this planet. I struggled over it for several weeks because taking the position I applied for would mean cutting my salary by more than half what I am making now. In the end, I decided it would totally be worth it, if it meant I did not have to dread going to work each day. At least I would know I was contributing something. That my hard work was doing more for the world than simply lining the pockets of several men who have sufficient lining in there already.
And I didn’t get the job.
And so, here I am.
This is not a new dilemma for me. I have been struggling with it for years. I hate to put such a sentiment in writing for God and all the world to see, but I honestly feel as if I’m wasting my life. That it matters not a bit whether I am here or…there.
Look, I know I have a lot of people in my life who love me and would really miss me were I gone. I am not using my blog as a forum within which to write my suicide note by any means. But if I were never here, would it matter to those people? I doubt it. I doubt it highly. And it certainly wouldn’t matter to anyone who has never been in my living room.
I guess this feeling is in some ways a good one. It is this feeling which has traditionally caused me to get involved in politics (in a real way, not just by running my mouth), has caused me to do things like the Breast Cancer 3 Day and, like, hundreds of other money-raising marathons and such. But while I like doing all of those things, they are of course just not enough.
I know where this all comes from. First of all, I chose to never have children, so I have not been charged with raising another human being to become a productive member of society (or at least something other than a serial killer). I can think of nothing more meaningful than that. But for me, the more important thing is that I am not doing what I was put on this earth to do.
I am a singer, in case you didn’t know. I also write songs.
No, you don’t understand. When I say I am a singer…I mean it.
Nobody who reads this blog actually knows me*, so I am just going to put this out there and modesty be damned.
I am a really, really good singer.
In truth, I actually find many faults with my singing voice and am continually frustrated with it, but I also acknowledge that it is a pleasing thing and that other people really get off on it. I also find that I am a much better singer now than I was ten years ago, let alone twenty, and I seem to get better all the time. I assume that will stop eventually, like when I’m sixty or whatever and my voice starts to atrophy (or sooner if I don’t stop smoking so much of the mota *ahem*), but for now I am happy to report that the vocal chords are healthy and strong, but have seen enough of the world to give them an informed sound when they’re working.
I am also immodest enough to say that my voice is better than 90% of those you will hear on or off the radio.
It just is what it is, you know. It’s not like an accomplishment or anything; I really had nothing to do with it, which may be why I feel OK with appearing so ego-maniacal in writing about it.
Anyway, the writing thing I can do. I can and do do that all the time. I have since like 3rd grade. I read once (I think Frank O’Hara said it) that one does not choose to become a writer. You just are one. Truer words were never spoken. I can not remember a time when I wasn’t writing. I never think about it, either, I just do it. Like breathing. Actually, a better comparison is to an erection, cuz if I have to think about it too much, it ain’t gonna happen.
The problem with singing is that, aside from shower-performances or singing along to Dwight Yoakam in my car, I can’t do it alone. I mean, I can’t fully make music on my own. Not really. The instruments I play I play badly. No, I mean badly. As good a singer as I am? Yeah, that’s how bad a guitar player I am. I blame my parents. I just have very short fingers. I play piano almost as badly. I can play these instruments well enough to write songs but I would never, ever be tempted to play an instrument other than my vocal chords in front of real, actual people.
What all of this means is, if I ever want to make real music, I have to depend on others. I take my bare-bones songs in to a band of people and they make real music out of it, over which I can sing.
Depending on others, that’s always a gamble. Depending on musicians? Next to impossible.
And that’s my real impediment. Years ago, I decided it was more important to my emotional and mental well-being to eliminate excess drama and those who cause it from my life. For better or for worse, by coincidence or by design, this decision has meant eliminating a lot of the most creative people I know from my life.
When I was in my twenties, I had what I thought was a really good songwriting partnership with a guy who is now an S-Dog (although he plays with other bands, as well). Blah-blah and yadda-yadda, bullshit got in the way and I made the decision to end that partnership and the band we were in because of on-going drama which had nothing to do with the music. These things happen all the time and it has happened to me several times since, with several different bands. There is always something which interferes with the music and that always pisses me the hell off, big time.
Whether it’s ego issues, romance issues, problems with people not showing up on time or at all, drug problems, whatever; it’s always shit that has nothing to do with the reason we’re all there – the music – which interferes with our ability to create it. And truthfully, if there is no drama the band is usually boring or can’t play well or likes music I hate.
Like that band that wanted me to sing that god-awful “Black Velvet” song by Alannah Myles. I should have run screaming into the night when they brought it up...
Anyway, I did go see a friend’s band play last Friday and ended up singing a song with them on the spur of the moment. While it had little-to-nothing to do with me, there was immense drama going on that night, which I got to hear all about the next day: Dudes grabbing other dudes’ wives asses…much mota smoking going on before the gig, so as to interfere with said gig’s quality…guitar player turning his amp up way too high and drowning out the other guitar-player cuz he’s jealous that other guitar-player is better than he…jealous girls in the audience causing a fight…words like “I’m quitting this fucking band!” being thrown about…
Same story, different band.
So what the hell was the point of this entry?
I’m unhappy and frustrated, but I know the thing which will make me happy will probably frustrate me, too.
Ultimately, I know what I need to do. I am apparently stuck working as a Corporate Asshole, so I’d better find other ways in which to get my creative ya-yas out and to feel at least somewhat fulfilled and useful. I need to look for musicians I can hang with and make some music with. I guess that’s the point.
Such as it is.
*Interesting note: I have told a few friends about this blog and they do not seem at all interested in reading it…I choose to think they are just incredibly busy people rather than I am not in the least interesting.
Who is that person with the make-up on and the high-heeled shoes and the fuckin’ business suit?
I had to wear a suit, heels and makeup not too long ago and it FREAKED ME OUT. I'm the girl that goes to work in shorts and t-shirts. What's this corporate whore look? Thankfully, I'm not actually a corporate whore -- I just dress like one sometimes!
But I get where you're coming from in this post. I'm stuck in my own unfulfilling job. I'm late to work just about every day because I just don't care anymore. And the sad thing is that I work in a job that should make a difference in people's lives -- but I'm not convinced it does, most of the time. But anyway, this isn't about me...
I just wanted to say that you're not alone in feeling like this. Finding the balance between what you do and who you are is tough. Sometimes it feels impossible. Good luck.
Posted by: Andrea | Thursday, July 24, 2008 at 06:16 PM