Yup, that’s me. And I’d like to attribute the sprained back muscle to the wild spinning, but the truth of the matter is that I did it in a most undignified manner… bending over in the john to pick up one of those cowboy hats (otherwise known as toilet seat covers) that had fallen onto the floor, with my knickers pooled around my ankles. Yeah, too much information, I know.
So… back to the wild spinning. Although I overheard a suggestion for a trip to Magic Mountain this weekend, this has nothing to do with an amusement park ride. In fact, it’s just the opposite. I get so frustrated with myself sometimes… The Critic shows up (uninvited) and proceeds to wreak havoc to what little confidence I’ve managed to muster up with regard to my skill as an artist (or writer). I sit before the blank sheets of paper and balk. My stomach churns. I break out in a sweat. I think of the myriad other things I need to take care of instead of focusing on the task at hand. My mind wanders. I fantasize about Keanu Reeeves (did I just say that? I was kidding…). I think of the laundry that needs to be sorted by color and weight, schlepped out onto the balcony and loaded into the washer, then the dryer… then schlepped back inside and folded and put away. I think about the laps on the treadmill I ought to be doing (not to mention the crunches).
I decide that watching the Matrix movie with my kid is much more appealing than to sit down and draw something, particularly when it’s due to someone in a few days. Researching the mythology embedded into the movie seems to make far better use of my time than to work on anything substantive (like the story I was going to write and stopped writing half a year or so ago)… particularly when I discover that The Merovingian links that I unearth scream “conspiracy” and this sucks me in like a vacuum, as I trail from one weblink to the next, and finally go to bed with my head feeling like a bowl stuffed full of wet cottonballs. I lay down alone, as I’ve been doing for the better part of twelve of my thirteen years of marriage (unless of course it’s one of “those” nights [wink, wink] which for the most part is a less desirable option at times than the half empty bed part, because even on those nights I end up drifting off to sleep by myself once the deed is done. It’s a cruel form of pay-back for every one night stand that I initiated which resulted in my partners feeling cheap and used.
And then I wake before the crack of dawn, after hitting the snooze button more times than I ought to, which renders me late to work, and hence leaving the office later at the tail end of my work day, and starts the whole maniacal cycle over again.
Truth of the matter is (I say that often, don’t I?) I’m not feeling particularly inspired these days. I haven’t been for a while, and I feel so full of shit when I try to drum something up that really isn’t authentic, if you know what I mean? Truth of the matter is… I am bored. My life is like a scene out of Groundhog Day (only different)… same shit, different day… and I just can’t seem to shake that gad-awful feeling and get worked up about something enough to overcome that dreadful sinking feeling.
I’m stuck in the black hole of The Corporate World, at the lowliest end of it, right along with the bottom feeders of the deep. We’re a necessary and useful group, to be sure, but don’t make much of an impression, and the grand entrances are carried out by the bigger fish. Nobody really gives a shit about you, except when you don’t follow the rules. And lordy, there certainly are a litany of rules… a whole “employee’s manual”-worth, biblical in breadth (yeah, so what if I’m exaggerating a wee bit).
There are days I just feel like running away… far, far, away. I remember reading about a fugue state in one of Dean Koontz’ books, where folks run, saliva foaming at the mouth and everything, until they finally collapse. I imagine, at times, that that would be a preferable state. And then feel horribly guilty about even thinking about running away, because I do, after all, have a smallish child (though I can attest that he has a disproportionally BIG mouth at times). The phrase “freedom of choice” smacks of oxymoron to me. Do I have a choice? Well… yeah… between a rock and a hard place, and in my most humble opinion, that isn’t much of a choice at all.