Growing up, I loved a few things: my parents, pizza, music and drawing. I'm pretty sure I loved the dog too, but ya know, that's really debatable. I think you easily forget the things you love (or to continue loving them) when they're stupid enough to run off and get hit by a car. I thank God every day my parents are smart enough not to play in traffic.
And in the light of all that's going on with me right now . . . or ever . . . I'm drawn to those things I still love. In case you're wondering, in two days, it'll be four months since I lost my job. (I really should blog more often, huh?) It's one of those economy heading south, clientèle changing, company refocusing, we can't afford to have a full-time designer anymore things. Lemme tell you, picking a career field looked at as easily expendable, not a good idea. Then again, doing something you love for work everyday? Priceless.
Wow, I really digressed in that last paragraph, didn't I?
OK, so back to the things that I love and the WHOLE point for writing right now: the music. Today at the gym, sitting in the hot tub after my workout, I listened to Switchfoot. I thought about how I've had all this time on my hands and the most I've done is have my camera out a few times and took my sketchbook to Denver for the weekend. Seriously, I could've put together an entire art show by now and what have I done? I sit in front of the TV and the computer, being pissed off at the world for taking its sweet time in making any decision surrounding finding me a paycheck.
Now I'm pissed off at myself for having no personal motivation; I'm pissed off at the world for not paying me to be me ('cause I'm a total whore like that); and I'm actually thinking I should come home and paint. Or at least get those Barbies out of the basement, chop their hair off, spray paint them and then mount them like the bad little emblems of societal sexual repression they are. Hee hee, angry political art with heavy emphasis in sexuality is fun.
And it's that damn Switchfoot guy singing to me, goading me on, "What happens next? I dare you to move." Seriously, are you kidding me? Here I am, not only pissed off at the lack of movement, but now I'm getting a full on musical number choreographing my next steps: daring ME to move. Not waiting on the world, but motivating myself.
What the heck, dudes?
What. The. Heck.
Once upon a time, this love of music and a strong pull of fatalistic personal soundtracking laid on with Jars of Clay's "Worlds Apart":
To love you - take my world apart
To need you - I am on my knees
To love you - take my world apart
To need you - broken on my knees
Just in case you're wondering, don't pray this prayer for wisdom. It's a crazy trip. Yeah, that one decided to challenge my own sexuality to the point I chose to go to Point Loma Naz for college. Talk about wisdom, be a gay guy, grown up evangelical Christian and go to a Christian college while you're figuring yourself out and then come out. It's loads o' . . . having your world taken apart.
Of course, it did lead me to DC where we have an entire set of novels . . . or at least novellas . . . OK FINE, a collection of trite, short stories leading to the mover, FFH's "Lord Move or Move Me." Yeah, that one's about taking action and moving too.
Lord move in a way, that I've never seen before
Cause there's a mountain in the way and a lock on the door
I'm drifting away, waves are crashing on the shore
So Lord move (move), or move me.
Yeah kid, move your wisdom-seeking, faggoty ass across the continent where you're gonna have the time of your life and get pummeled by everything the secular world can throw at you and then, well, I want you to move back home.
I'm feeling very Jewish at this point. 'Cause it's all about cynical passive-aggressive anger at God for giving you exactly what you asked for. There's a praise and a story about Job in here somewhere. Feel free to point it out to me.
Well here I am now. Almost four years later, I'm still at home with my mom. Which is fine—remember, I love her 'cause she doesn't play in traffic. And she taught me to drive. (Side note of wisdom for ya: if you don't want to be a run-over victim, become a participant in the American oil addiction.) I'm still unemployed. And that's OK too. At least I'm not floudering around after a move across the country. I'm older and wiser for all that experience. I know that even angels fall and just because I'm crawlin', it doesn't mean I've stopped. I'm not a dead man lying on the carpet; I'm still aiming for the stars, ready to launch into orbit . . . like a satellite. Or maybe a bit like a Scandanavian diva:
At any rate, here I am. At least I'm talking about it. Now I've got to do something. So if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna leave the iTunes party shuffle on full force and head to the basement for some Barbies.
