Please take yo’ fine self over to Books on the Radio, where you can read my review of REMEMBERING SLAVERY, a powerful collection of stories from slaves themselves about their experiences as “owned humans”.
I believe it needs to be on every serious book owner’s shelves, even if you’re unlikely to ever read more than 5 pages at a time.
Here’s my review. Thanks!
Now I'm Getting Somewhere
I’m so close to the end of a very, very long journey at home.
I have always maintained, as have others, that the home does reflect who we are and where we’re at. Mine has been chaos for a while. I’ve kept making improvements, but there’s always another area that’s remained undone, and it spreads, like a fungus or something.
Creative Commons image by Christolakis on Flickr, "Light".
I’ve had a vision, but neither the time nor the money, and possibly not even the inclination, to make it happen.
Now, though, I finally came up with a few disposable dollars and put money into a “treat”: Finishing my bedroom. For $115, I’ve completely transformed the space. I awoke this morning and felt like I’d stayed the night at a spa. That’s how a bedroom should feel. Now my room is a room I feel I need to live up to, rather than a place I simply go to sleep in.
As for the rest of my home, over the last 10 days, I’ve been getting rid of some more “stuff” around the house, little things that all add up to something big, like a couple shopping carts full of crap. Gone. Or, well, donated, as the case largely is. This is a little place, that’s a mighty big impact.
But beyond creating space, I’ve also created structure. I’m organizing things as I go, subtle changes here and there that just make sense, and make it more likely to have order as an ongoing status quo. For instance, now my ironing board, iron, and laundry basket all in my bedroom clothes closet, rather than scattered over 3 separate closets.*
By deciding I don’t emotionally need to have my giant 1840 camelback armchair in my living room anymore (since I already have a gorgeous modern leather one with great back support that’s the same size), I’ve cleared up 16 square feet of formerly-consumed space in my living room, and given my 600-or-so squarefoot home, that’s a hell of a lot of floorspace to reveal.
I even had the strength to get rid of something I’ve been hanging onto for emotional reasons, and not because it’s something I’ve ever even used in 11 years: My mother’s leather briefcase. I just put it out back and it was gone within the hour, and so too the remembrances of how broke she was as a realtor at the end of her life, and how that briefcase was something she bought for confidence. I don’t need that connection in my life. I’m done, Henry, movin’ on.
So, I’ve been applying that sort of thought process to just about everything I’ve looked at lately. Someone said, if it doesn’t prove itself useful, or actively beautify your space, it should go. Period. So, yes.
I’ve now probably pared back the clutter in my life by about 35% in the last two years. I tell you, my soul sure feels like it.
Some of those things were remembrances of bad times, connections to negative vibes. It’s hard to ditch those pieces when you perceive them as a connection to someone you love who’s gone, but it’s so soul-saving when you do. Wow.
I’m not done. I think as we grow and evolve, we move out of more and more things, and I’ll probably fine-tune this over the next five years or so, as I get closer to where I want to be… wherever that takes me.
But I’m closer than I’ve ever been.
I’m not a materialistic person in that I covet new things all the time — I don’t. I don’t want to go buy this or that. I just want my space around me to reflect who I am — and that I’m finally find calm and peace both inside me and around me is a really nice development. It’s taken a long time of continuing to pare through things to get to here.
I’ve been learning a lot about myself in the last week, that much I can say.
I’m also really excited to see where this takes me creatively. If you don’t think your environment affects your writing, you’re cuckoo for cocoa puffs, friends. I feel less constrained, more open, more free to move around in this little home of mine, and I’ll be surprised if that doesn’t find its way into my words, too. And spring’s here — always my most creative season.
Boy, oh, boy. Good times. I have more cleaning to do, but I’ll post some photos tomorrow morning. Enjoy your Sunday, world.
*I know, it seems like you’d just put all that stuff together anyhow; but before I had the stupid idea of using shoe racks and keeping all my t-shirts, shorts, etc. on the racks, which was the dumbest idea EVER. Don’t do it! I also had a little drawer unit that stuck and was impossible to open/close, with all my underwear, bras, and socks in an ungodly jumble. My clothes have been ridiculous for forever. My new highboy that holds everything and even Grammy’s blanket and my old comforter sewn by Mom [with every blanket I’ve ever had since I was 2 sewn into it!] — which now don’t have to be unseen and stored in deep dark corners in plastic bags. Yay!
Moods in the Morning, February Style
The rain’s coming down sideways.
My coffee cup being more full than empty is fact, not perspective.
My attitude today isn’t a bad one, just one of nothingness.
What can I tell you? February. It’s that old wall-hanging quote: This too shall pass.
Which is an accidentally appropriate segue to a joke I’ve made a million times: “I need an existential laxative, ‘cos I’m finding it really hard to give a shit.”
So true today. So much needs doing, so little will to do it.
It’d be easy to chew myself out for missing the mark in a few areas, but by the time the dust on this week settles, I’ll have gotten a number of areas and long-running projects sorted in my life. I think. Or something.
But, in the meantime, between the oppression of February at its finest, the confusion of PMS, and the indecision of my life, it’s a really weird headspace I’m in this morning. Unsettled, but calm. Worried, but hopeful. The continuing state of the Steff, brought to you in part by the letter Y and the word “sigh”.
It’s weeks like this I find it impossible to write, mostly because I just have one theme on the top of my head: I just don’t know.
I’m not COMPLAINING or sad or depressed or bitter or anything. I’m the human equivalent of a rowboat tied up at dock right now. Ain’t a bad thing, ain’t a good thing — it just is. Poor little boat wants to just get a direction and sail, man.
But direction’s a two-way journey, and I’m not the only one with a say in the matter.
So, today it’s humpday. A rainy, stormy humpday.
And I got nothin’, nothin’ but a muddled mind as muddled as the clouds above.
Now my cup is empty, and my day begins. Enjoy yours.
February: Waking At The End of Winter
The song that inspired this posting is in the widget down below. Give it a listen and get a feel for where I’m coming from.
February.
My least-favourite month of the year. I’m not a winter person, least of all a February person.
This month reeks of death. From personal anniversaries through to roadside molding rotted leafy messes, some days, it’s all death for me.
That’s February, nature’s “darkest before dawn.”
But February also becomes birth. Snowdrops emerge from recent-frosted soils, crocuses poke up. Cherry blossoms begin their storming of Vancouver’s awakening streets.
It’s the dichotomy of life and death.
This morning I awoke with the “I don’t know how I’ll make it through the month” mentality that inevitably hits me right around now every year.
It’s like my soul grows and dies with the seasons. Come this time of year, all the fallen life leaves — and winter’s struggles — have decomposed enough that a mat covers all that’s inside of me. Finding joy and fun at this time of year, embracing humour and seeing the big picture, it just gets hard some days.
This year, not so bad. Still, below is the song by “The The” that epitomises how I experience February every year. I start off blue and pensive, thinking about my mother, whose cancer was found, whose life was given a “best-by” date, and whose birthday all fall in Valentine’s Week. It’s inevitable, I remember her every year.
Me and my friend were walking
In the cold light of mourning
Tears may blind the eyes but the soul is not deceived
In this world even winter ain’t what it seems
Then, the week ends, and I realise it wasn’t so bad. I realise I like to remember, that taking that time to remember is what will help me keep some small fragment of her alive, that the confusion of pain and acceptance I feel even now comes from how strong a relationship and connection we had, and how many questions I never got answers to.
And, like this song, “Love is Stronger than Death,” I get that it’s all part of the journey. We need these times of sadness to really know when to embrace joy, like a million philosophers and Sufi poets have said.
Here come the blue skies here comes springtime
When the rivers run high & the tears run dry
When everything that dies
Shall rise
Then, it’s the last week of February, and more of nature wakes, March is around the corner, the temperature’s rising… I feel like I’m breathing more, I’m stronger. Energy returns, curiosity piques, and smiles come easier.
It’s human nature, spring fever, waking from hibernation. I don’t know. The northern way, perhaps. But that last week of February, that’s about when my soul refills with everything I’ll need to get me through the frenetic, light-18-hours-a-day Canadian summer.
And this is the month. It’s everything — birth, remembrance, death, a tease of things to come. It’s a world of emotion every week. That’s February.
This song captures that. I’ve played it on a loop for a half hour. The slow, painful start, consciousness rising in the middle, then the exuberant determination in the end, when a groove begins to fall upon you, the listener. Like February moving into March. For me, anyhow.
Soon. Out there, I can smell its arrival. Air too fresh like that, always signals winter’s either comin’ or goin’. Yeah. I’m ready.
—-
I give you “The The,” the band name that stumped pirates before downloading was even a thing. Trivia about The The? Local alternative radio station, CKST, Coast 1040, had a very short on-air life in the early ’90s after fighting hard for air time, and the station came to life and died with their first and last songs ever played being “The The” tracks: the first being from the Mind Bomb album, the last from Dusk, Lonely Planet.
The Stormy Psychic Seas of Job-Huntin'
The thing about the unemployed-becoming-self-employed-or-something lifestyle is, it’s fight-or-flight, feast-or-famine for a while.
It’s a reactionary life. “What’s out there? Jump! Get it! There it is! Don’t let it escape!”
When it’s about job-hunting, other pursuits in life tend to get dropped while opportunity gets pursued.
At the moment, that’s where I’m at. I have to work as much as I can RIGHT NOW because I don’t know what’s coming tomorrow. I could sit around and collect unemployment insurance and do nothing, but I’d rather be working. I’m thrilled to have the chance.
When it comes to taking jobs, I’m old enough to know that not just anything will do. When it’s 25% of your weekly life, including sleep, you better fucking like what you do, or at least who you’re doing it for and with.
There comes a point in one’s life when one should realize a job interview isn’t just about them interviewing you, it’s about them being good enough for your commitment. This is the first time I’ve ever been patient enough to see it that way and I’ve come close with some amazing opportunities, some of which aren’t yet played through.
Unemployment is a hard, hard road. I don’t care who you are or what you’ve been through, if you don’t learn new things about yourself during unemployment, dude, yer doin’ it wrong. Most of us, it’s probably one of the toughest tests, and most educational passages, of our lives.
I’ve been that person in the past who gets laid off, then the next day has a new resume, and nine days later has a shiny new job. I’ve done that. And it was one of the worst six months of my life. Including my mother’s death. Seriously. Bad choices equal bad results.
Getting A job, ANY job, is easy. They have books on it, you know. It’s a method. Look pretty, smile, be funny and warm and engaging, do stuff during your life that looks good on a resume, learn the answers, know how to talk, and really give a shit. It ain’t for everyone to master, no, but it can be learned.
The right job? Whew. They’re like blue moons and honest politicians, they’re out there — it’s just real damn hard to come across one.
Me, I’m in an era of transition. Whatever happens in the coming days will shape my year(s) to come. And it’s totally up in the air.
How often do we get to enjoy THIS? Uncertainty, hope, possibility, unpredictability, the unknown, variety? Most of us, we find a groove in life and off we go. That’s the path we tread for months, years, and even decades: Routine.
I called a dear friend on the weekend and told him a situation I had to decide about. Do I press forward despite the personal risk? He took a deep breath and sighed, we batted the idea around for a while. At the end, he commented, “I’m jealous: The unknown. I don’t envy the choice, but I’m jealous of the possibility.”
For years, he’s gotten up, worked at the same store, same people, same routine. For years, I had, too.
There’s a comfort in such a routine. It’s not exciting, but you know your bank account empties and refills, ebbing and flowing like any river of life.
This fluttery what-will-I-get confusion and possibility I’m living under these days, it’s driving me sort of insane, but it’s also something I know I might not experience again for 5 or 10 years. If ever.
All that being said… I’m glad I’m getting closer to resolution. I’m ready for a new chapter. I’m ready to work on other areas of my life. I want my financial picture clear and reliable so I can move back to feeling, and being, creative — with abandon.
The long things drag on, the more I feel like I should censor my creative efforts. @Smuttysteff who writes The Cunting Linguist? Sure, that says “hire me.” Well, actually, unbeknownst to some, it does say just that. Still, I’m not a fan of this creative apprehension.
A year ago, the Olympics were rolling into Vancouver. Since then, I’ve grown a lot through taking chances, confronting fears, and believing in myself in a quietly persistent way through some trying times. I’ve had refreshers about what’s important in life — and who. A year ago, I didn’t know I was about to lose my job. I never would’ve predicted the year that followed, but there you have it.
Even now, I’ve no idea what’s around the corner, except that it’s hurry-up-and-wait time.
But what I can tell you is, I hope I never forget some of the lessons I’ve learned this year, or the old ones I’ve been reminded of.
Adversity’s your friend. Suck it up, buttercup. Become better. Find your weaknesses and replace them with strength. Unemployment is a relentless opportunity to discover who you really are and what you really need.
Unless, you know, you actually enjoy the living-and-operating-from-a-place-of-fear approach to unemployment.
It can be a long ride, man. Best advice is, buckle up and see where the hell it goes. It might just be an end destination you never woulda seen coming.
With that, it’s on with my unpredictable-yet-not week. Oy vey.
The Continuing Limbo That Is The Life of Steff
I don’t have time to write!
Most of the time lately, I don’t have the wherewithal, either.
This is what happens when I’m in complete professional limbo. Everything, everywhere, all up in the air. I have no idea where I stand nor where I’m going, even though I have secret inclinations as to what the destinations may be.
But I can say nothing. NOTHING.
Tipping one’s hand in public is wrong, wrong, wrong. Dumb! We are not hardy fools here, my friends.
Today, it’s work, waiting on whether it’s a decision-making time, talkin’, and hopefully making it all fit in time to attend a meeting of an organisation I’ve intended to join for more than a decade.
Which is all to say I sort of feel like vomiting.
My entire month, from about January 8th through to now, has been chock-full of wait-wait-wait. It’s a much better place than “what the fuck do I do”, like where I was wallowing before Christmas.
It’s funny, I made a couple decisions over the holidays, and this full-steam-ahead mode has been the result, ever since. What decisions? One day I might tell you. This is not that day.
I should be writing more of this uncertainty down, but it’s the kind of writing I hate. All self-absorbed and repetitive. Maybe tomorrow.
Today, a wind is blowing — moving a dark, wet, oppressive weather system that kept us all inside and lazy yesterday, out the door and ushering in a sunshine-and-wind weather pattern for the next few days. It’s an interesting weather day for feeling that so much rides on conversations, choices, and self-confidence.
But that’s where it is. That’s what it’s about.
Still, I’m trying not to rush anything. These times of tumult and change and possibility and unexpected, unpredictable futures… we seldom get to enjoy these. The questions that are swirling around me — I know I’ve spent more of my life bored into routine than I have dancing with chance and opportunity like I am right now… and this should be a rare much-savoured treat, this uncertainty.
It’s a hard mental place to stay in, it requires so much self-belief: This will resolve, I will choose rightly, the changes it will usher might be amazing, I can do this, and so forth.
Chances are easier to take when you’re well-monied. Let that be noted.
I am not well-monied.
The chances I may soon take scare the living shit out of me, even if they seem small and nothing-like to others.
The only thing that keeps me comforted is this — and it’s a big one: I know myself really fuckin’ well.
So, yeah. Life? I don’t know.
I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. And I got nothin’ I can share with you. Or nothing I’m foolish enough to share yet, anyhow.
Now it’s into the mottled grey yonder, and into a big and daunting Monday. Let’s see where my life goes between now and the next dawn.
I don’t know. But I know I’m fortunate to even have choices, and I’m more fortunate I have the smarts to make ’em right.
Rant: How Not To Be An International Traveller
Given all the serious news going on with Egypt’s revolution, I need a rant about stupid people to get my head back in the game this week.
These people will do.
Iran has summoned an American woman to return to the country and stand trial on Feb. 6 along with two other Americans still in custody and accused of spying after crossing the border from Iraq, a judiciary spokesman said Monday.
Their families say the Americans were just intrepid travellers out on a hike in northern Iraq’s scenic — and relatively peaceful — Kurdish region when they were arrested on July 31, 2009. The only woman among them, Sarah Shourd, was released on bail in September and returned to the United States.
The U.S. government has denied the charges against them and demanded their release. Their lengthy detention has added to tensions between the two nations over issues like Iran’s disputed nuclear program.
“Oh,” you say, “but they’re just innocent hikers who were out for a walk, and they got arrested by the big bad Iranians!”
Yes, but they’re innocent hikers who were stupid enough to go into one of the most unstable regions of the world without using the “REAL FUCKIN’ SAFE is better than bein’ REAL FUCKIN’ SORRY” Travel Method for Optimal Foreign Diplomacy.
In short, if you’re travelling even REMOTELY CLOSE to one of the most oppressive regimes in the world, who, coincidentally, nurtures the most profound hatred for your country’s way of life, you’d think a fucking proximity alert might be going off in their heads.
Instead, it was probably something like, “Hey, Bob, a little to the left, I can’t get THE MISSILE SILO in the background with the flowers.”
Okay, there were no missile silos.
Still.
I get that it’s a beautiful part of the world. I understand that it sucks that things like thousands-of-years of racial and ethinic tension get in the way of a lovely vacation, but it is what it is, man!
I call it LonelyPlanetitis. It’s not good enough to go to Puerto Vallarta. Now you have to conquer a Tibetan mountain pass in a deathly blizzard with tornado-like squalls in order to claim you’re an “adventurer.”
Bonus points if YOU carry YOUR sherpa.
In a world filled with real and pressing dangers, I have a hard time seeing the amount of resources spent on people who take unnecessary travel risks just because they can. It’s IRAN, for crying out loud. Wake the fuck up, dumbass!
There are a few countries in the world where you just shouldn’t fuck around. Iran? Check. North Korea? Check. China? Check.
And, oh, yay, here come the parade of celebrities to try and get the guys free. Thank god for Sean Penn! Okay, great. Go, team! Cue the Hollywood director who thinks THIS COULD BE THE “Midnight Express” OF THIS GENERATION.
But it still comes down to this: A whole lot of effort’s being spent on people who should’ve used caution when they knew they were even 75 kilometres from the Iranian border.
It’s IRAN, motherfuckers! This ain’t Walley’s World, chumps!
One of the problems with calling these guys DUMB is: They’re not. They’re smart. They’re educated, empathetic, worldly, curious about cultures, etc. But what they did was fucking dumb.
Okay, here’s a more local take on things.
I live in Vancouver, BC. We don’t have border skirmishes to worry about, or threatening neighbours, or diplomatic stand-offs. We do, however, know a thing or two about mountains. And rescues.
Having been born and raised here in Vancouver, Canada, I have two of the deep-down inside fears probably most lifelong locals can relate to: Death by bear, death by avalanche.
Both of these are similarly unlikely. Why? Because, with a little intelligence and a lot of caution, they NEVER need to happen.
One hikes with a bell, bears stay away.
One follows the weather pattern of warming/cold/wet/dry/warming/cold that we have on the coast, and one knows this drastically impairs safety in the backwoods.
One should then know: Stay on the fucking trails, don’t go onto big beautiful fluffy open patches of mountain-side snow after temperature & precipitation fluctuations if you don’t want to risk an avalanche.
Fact is, Darwin was pretty on the money with the “survival of the fittest” thing, especially if “fitness” has to do with brain function.
Simple: If you have the time to plan a vacation to Kurdish back-country to hike mountains, you have the time to study the history, culture, and relative danger of crossing proximity into Iraq.
This whole “international crisis” thing because of a few stupid travellers? Well, sorry, I just don’t buy into the great tragedy of it all.
They fucked up. Big.
And now we’re all left trying to cover their asses for it. Expensive. Time-consuming. And real fuckin’ dumb.
Moral of the story? When YOU go travelling, don’t be a fucking moron. We have better things to worry about.
Fuck, man.
That said… death/imprisonment/etc in Iran, well, I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. I honestly do hope these people get released. I’d love to see them freed. But to say they didn’t fuck up? Wrong.
Praying for Egypt
As I write this, the Al Jazeera live blog is reporting that the Army has told protesters in Tarihr Square that they will not go against civilians. Hundreds of judges are now reported to have joined the protests. Curfews are being ignored. Jets overhead are being ignored.
I’m a child of the ’70s and grew up during plane hijackings in an era of war in the Middle East. In my lifetime, that region has always been a problem… from assassinations to oppression, and now the home of terrorism.
This dream of seeing dictators overthrown and new eras come to life is something one holds inside when they love journalism and politics, something we dream of seeing once in a lifetime.
When the East German Wall came down, down came the Communist regime throughout Europe.
Is this Egypt’s wall? Is this the toppling domino that unseats Middle Eastern dictators en masse?
In an era when it almost feels like there’s less hope than ever for civilians, this protest in Egypt makes my heart sing. I’m so full of hope and prayers.
This could be the week that changes everything. It really could be.
If you’re not following what’s happening in Egypt, you’re missing out on what might be history happening… possibly the real start of real change in the Middle East.
Pray for Egypt. Pray for change.
A woman in Beirut supports the Egyptian struggles.
This Word, That Word, Any Ol' Word
I’ve been thinking a lot about language lately; useful if you’re a writer paid by the word. Words count. Every one of them. That’s why we charge you for each.
That’s why, when I watched this opening passage from an episode of The West Wing this morning, this exchange really tickled me. They’re talking about a pianist set to play a concert in the White House.
LEO: He’s North Korean, God knows how he managed to even learn. Their music’s all hymns to the barley harvest, not that they ever have one.
C.J.: To busy reprocessing plutonium to feed anybody.
LEO: Why they’re a rogue state.
C.J.: “Rogue” state… makes them sound bravishly charming. Should be “thug” state; “psycho” state.
LEO: We’ll ask the UN to re-designate.
C.J.: Punk state — that’s what they are, a bunch of punks.
LEO: Bunch of punks, with what could be six nuclear warheads.(west wing transcripts: here)
There’s a lot of weight behind them there adjectives. Each one changes the matter drastically.
As far as North Korea and the adjectives go, the “rogue” is the Count of Monte Cristo. I don’t mind him, a namby-pamby guy, not scary.
Perhaps if he had asked for assistance with a more well-thought sentence, we wouldn't be laughing at his untimely demise.
The “thug” conjures images of 50 Cent. Not a fan, he smacks of “itchy trigger finger.”
Then, with “psycho,” it’s Norman Bates; translation: “don’t ask for pillow service.”
Finally, you have “punk” Sid Vicious, which I guess makes South Korea their ‘Nancy.’ (Which takes on still more interpretations when you consider the British slang of “nancy.”)
The last three dudes: Ixnay the ombbay, eh?
Exactly who I don’t want to have a finger on The Button.
Speaking of people I don’t want with a finger on The Button: For anyone thinking cultural terms are as interchangeable as Lego blocks, I give you Sarah Palin. The Alaskan village idiot’s speechwriter sure got a lesson in that one when Sarah Palin made her ridiculous hyperbolic claims of “blood libel,” regarding the “target poster: let’s-get-Palin” fall-out after the Arizona shootings.
It’s just another Tea Party attempt to paint her in a Messianic light, but it’s also a cruel insult to Jews, who’ve had century after century of persecution, of which this term speaks, when it’s someone as privileged and plain-Jane white as Palin claiming that brand of persecution. And she’s being persecuted only for her own choice to employ irresponsible rhetoric, too!
Then there’s the recent oh-so-asinine choice to willy-nilly swap out “nigger” for “slave” in Mark Twain’s lamentable “New South” edition of the classic Huck Finn. Like my friend says, such a context-lacking blanket noun switch is completely irresponsible. It ascertains that all slaves are niggers, and therefore all niggers are slaves. Hello?
Word choice is critical. Language is powerful.
Sadly, in an age where everything moves at the speed of light, people take too little responsibility for things said anymore — or too much. Either flippancy precedes everything and words zing across social networks with zero regard for their permanence, or else people are so terrified of permanence that they add very little of any consequence to the dialogue, or they magnify the least relevant detail because of perceived slights in the language.
I realise much of what I’ve said in the past few years can, and likely will, come back to haunt me, but considering the truth in what I try to say, and the standards I hold for myself, I can’t say I have a lot of regrets for putting my truth out there in as choice of terms as I have.
Do I wish I perhaps took the paid-by-the-word attitude of precision when choosing those words? Well, sure, that might cover my ass a little more, but it is what it is.
Sometimes we have to take a bigger-picture look at language. Instead of microanalysing every little word, take the whole of it together. It’s often akin to a symphony. A piano can do wonderfully on its own, but really has so much more to give when played against, and with, other instruments. So too with any word you offer; they play importantly both ways — solo and ensemble. I like how mine play, either way.
But with so little regard paid to much of what we say these days, I’m afraid that, both ways, we’re often largely at a loss.
When it comes to language, think of words as your tools. Not just any screwdriver will tighten that couch leg when it wobbles, so why are we so given to such casual word choice?
Think. Choose. And then mean what you say.
Maybe then our conversations will offer more of consequence, more to be gained.
catching up with the speed of steff
it’s a rainy sunday morning, and for once i’m gonna write without capitals.
i’m not wearing pants, either, so let’s just keep pretensions at bay and a coffee cup in hand, all right?
it’s been kinda a crazy week or so in the land of steff.
there’s one job i took a pass on, one job that took a pass on me (sort of), and a client that is a work in progress.
my old job has hours for me, my new client has work for me, and i think rent’s getting paid just in time. all things being equal? fuckin’ skookum*.
i’m in the middle of a sorting-out-my-homelife thing yet again. it has veered dangerously toward “rustic crack den” of late but also just needs bimonthly dustbunny-genocide duties executed. i’m all over the dustbunnies, man. makin’ asthma my bitch, yo.
for the first time in a long time, i’m liking the look of my work horizon. i want my home proper sorted so i can focus.
i’m widening my creative worldview and trying to take on a few things that i’ve always been terrified to try, though i deep-down dream of going there. like, i’ve done training for a radio station at the university recently. a friend and i are batting about the idea of doing a live latenight talk show that would be stream real-time on the intertubes and be downloadable later as a high-quality podcast. i’d also get hands-on skills with one of the most-used, best recording systems used on radio stations around the globe.
ideally, i’d be able to continue with my creative extracurricular goals along with work-type stuff. i’d love to be doing talk radio. i’ve always wanted to do that. i love my writing — i want to have the financial means to chill and keep at my goals there, too.
i have the time to be creative these days, but financially i’m too thinly stretched to have the freedom to do it WELL.
who i am creatively, THAT’S WHO I AM. that’s not negotiable. it’s not “hobbies”. it’s my identity. it’s what i’m comprised of at a molecular level.
you wanna live to work? fuckin’ rock on, buddy, but that ain’t my scene, never will be.
my mother DIED at 57. she didn’t get her retirement. she never saw her golden years. want to wait to live yours? FINE. not me.
so, we’ll see where the present situation leads. i think it’s what i’ve been looking for. the jury is out — and probably will be for about a month, until i get a better grasp at where i’m floating in the financial sea of life.
i’ve worked 60, 70, 80 hour weeks before, i once worked 10 weeks without a day off. unless it’s doing what i love — writing, talking, etc — then it’s never happening again.
i want the trappings of success, but not the trap of it.
as a result, i’m conducting the most patient and slow job search of my life. i want the right situation, not just a paycheque.
there’s no economy for being picky right now? we’ll see.
in the mean time: no pants and a coffee cup in hand, baby. that’s my sunday morning.
have a good one, world. 🙂
*skookum: (adj) it has come to my attention that this is a “regional colloquialism in southwest canada”. it basically means wonderful, really good, snazzy, and all those other lovely ducky adjectives. except… it’s skookum, bitch.