This class is like psychotherapy, man, seriously. I had originally started with the thought of the "end if this semester" thing from indacan, but it kind of spiralled into this whole thing about my future, so for what it's worth, this is what's going on in my head:
Too much. It’s all too much to consider, too big, to wide, too tall. Too unreal, too unfocused. Too much thinking outside the box, not enough time considering the box itself. Now I’m playing catch-up; not thinking about my work, about my dream, but a box. About structure. Any structure. A plan or an ideal, a goal for one year, five years, twenty years. A goal other than standing on a stage with a little gold man. A goal I could accomplish. That’s what I need.
I don’t want to sell books, movie tickets, fried fucking chicken from behind an apron and a silly hat, standing at a cash register my whole life. But I’ll be doing that in one year, five years, twenty years, if I don’t turn the ship around, or at least take a moment to look at the map, figure out the best course. Still dreaming about the stage, the gold man. Dreaming about sets and actors and props; interviews; arguments with billionaires about artistic integrity. Who am I kidding? Millions of people dream the same dreams, tens of thousands pursue that dream, and for mere dozens does it actually become real. And what of those left? Those left dreaming; those who pursue and fail? What of them, so much creative brilliance waiting tables, driving taxis. Will I be one of them? Waiting, waiting, pursuing, pursuing, but never going anywhere…Is that the Janek O’Toole story?
I could have been a lawyer. I could have been a journalist, or a psychologist. I could have been a chef. I could have done so many much more practical things, so many nice steady 9-2-5, know it’ll be there tomorrow jobs. If I’d kept in touch with the box. As it is, I’m living life without a box, hanging on strings of compliments, potential, changes here and there, slight tweaks to tighten it up, a lot of good ideas. It’s too late now; I can’t go back and start again for another 3 years. Could still become a chef, I suppose. If this doesn’t work out, could peel potatoes and chop onions for my daily bread. What a life.
“Follow your dreams” they said, “Do what you want to do” they said. Fuck that. Where’s that going to get me? 35 years old, waiting ‘til October and my Christmas Casuals job selling calendars. I was so happy to have parents who didn’t push me into medicine or law or something sensible. Now look at me. Friends in practices, fellowships, in other high-end organisations. And me in my stupid apron, organising shifts at a store no one buys from. Fuck. Disillusioning children, making them think they can’t accomplish anything isn’t abuse. Making them believe they can do anything is abuse. Figure out your kid’s potential and reming them ceaselessly where their fucking place is. No pie-in-the-sky ideas about your kid being special, unique, a precious snowflake unlike any other.
I’m like a snowflake, in a way. No direction, blown here and there by the winds, in a very gradual, but very real freefall. I’ll land on a street, in someone’s hair, on a roof, and melt. I’ll fade away and no one will be any the wiser. I am a snowflake, falling with every page of every script I ever wrote. Every bright idea that shimmers and glints in the sunlight, piling up, becoming an amorphous blotch, for someone to stamp on or shovel up, to be swept away to make room for sensible, downtrodden citizens.
Fuck. Where will I be in twenty years? High School Reunion, Trying to pass my job off as “purchasing and logistics technician”, drinking a little too much of the free wine, making a scene. Oh, all those sideways glances, all those covert whispers. “He was so together in school”, “He was really going to go places”, “Didn’t he win that award?”, “Some people just can’t get it together”, “What a shame” “What a pity” “What a waste”. There’s no denying it, I’ll go out with a bang.
45, still living with the parents, or parent, or alone. Living day-to-day off an inheritance or a pittance. People stopping by with some food, some words of sympathy, laugh about how funny I was when I was little, not talk about how ambitious I was when I was a teenager. Not talk about the slow descent into obscurity, even from my own friends and family. No longer lamenting how little they see me anymore, strangers with my blood.
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