This is it
Well, dear readers, this is it. I was up at 6:00am, made two job applications, and as of 9:00am, I have officially closed down my job search. I need to start seriously packing--only about a month to get it all done, find a storage facility that doesn't break my meager bank, find movers who are both inexpensive and trustworthy, and figure out where the bloody hell I'm going. Can you use a hot-plate in storage facilities? Anyway, tall orders for a small amount of time. I'll continue to post periodically--probably late at night, so don't expect a lot of creativity or coherence. Wait a minute, were either of those two present before?
I don't even know how many applications I've made. In the many hundreds I suppose. I'm too qualified or too unqualified, and in both cases probably too old. I never understood baseball statistics, and I hate sport metaphors anyway, but two hits out of many hundreds of strike-outs in four months is likely not very good. In life as well as in baseball. It's as embarrassing and depressing as it is disappointing.
One of my regrets is that I didn't get to do near as much writing as I wanted. It's ironic that when you're working you just don't have the time or the energy, and when you're out of work, you're just too busy looking for work and worrying to concentrate on being creative. Damned either way. I did make some headway on my novel, and I've sent out a few other things (like I really need more rejection!), and sans computer and sans the books I need to keep up with the accuracy of my novel, there likely won't be much writing being done in the near future either. You can weep, or you can stand way back and try to be bemused by it all. To keep what's left of my always tenuous sanity, I think I'll at least try to aim for the latter.
On the brighter side, I'm unspeakably happy that my son seems to be recovering nicely. Although he'll have to spend about another four months dealing with crutches, he's getting good therapy, he's now allowed to swim, and he has an enviable ability to stay calm and focused in spite of it all. He doesn't get the latter from me. He's also under the tender and loving care of his remarkably brilliant and beautiful paramour, and that also makes me unspeakably happy. And grateful.
Though I have but a few friends, the ones I do have are sterling, if not golden, and remarkable in their love and kindness and concern. If it comes to it I know they will see I don't starve, and would probably give me a place to curl up on a doorstep for a few days. They have had extraordinary forbearance in the face of all my wrong-headed flailings and misadventures over the years. There is/was a song by Barbra Streisand (I think) that went something like, "If there's a wrong way to do it, a right way to screw it up, nobody does it like me." Yeah. Right. She's living in an Eight-Million-Dollar house in Malibu. Why can't I screw it up like she did? I've got the nose, but not the talent. I can cross my eyes, but I can't sing.
And, I received a message yesterday that told me I was loved--even if it was likely under the influence of pain medication--I'll take it. I'll take it. Enough self-centered whining for today I think. Hello? Are you still awake? Writing in the infinite space between protons and electrons. Moving on.
I don't even know how many applications I've made. In the many hundreds I suppose. I'm too qualified or too unqualified, and in both cases probably too old. I never understood baseball statistics, and I hate sport metaphors anyway, but two hits out of many hundreds of strike-outs in four months is likely not very good. In life as well as in baseball. It's as embarrassing and depressing as it is disappointing.
One of my regrets is that I didn't get to do near as much writing as I wanted. It's ironic that when you're working you just don't have the time or the energy, and when you're out of work, you're just too busy looking for work and worrying to concentrate on being creative. Damned either way. I did make some headway on my novel, and I've sent out a few other things (like I really need more rejection!), and sans computer and sans the books I need to keep up with the accuracy of my novel, there likely won't be much writing being done in the near future either. You can weep, or you can stand way back and try to be bemused by it all. To keep what's left of my always tenuous sanity, I think I'll at least try to aim for the latter.
On the brighter side, I'm unspeakably happy that my son seems to be recovering nicely. Although he'll have to spend about another four months dealing with crutches, he's getting good therapy, he's now allowed to swim, and he has an enviable ability to stay calm and focused in spite of it all. He doesn't get the latter from me. He's also under the tender and loving care of his remarkably brilliant and beautiful paramour, and that also makes me unspeakably happy. And grateful.
Though I have but a few friends, the ones I do have are sterling, if not golden, and remarkable in their love and kindness and concern. If it comes to it I know they will see I don't starve, and would probably give me a place to curl up on a doorstep for a few days. They have had extraordinary forbearance in the face of all my wrong-headed flailings and misadventures over the years. There is/was a song by Barbra Streisand (I think) that went something like, "If there's a wrong way to do it, a right way to screw it up, nobody does it like me." Yeah. Right. She's living in an Eight-Million-Dollar house in Malibu. Why can't I screw it up like she did? I've got the nose, but not the talent. I can cross my eyes, but I can't sing.
And, I received a message yesterday that told me I was loved--even if it was likely under the influence of pain medication--I'll take it. I'll take it. Enough self-centered whining for today I think. Hello? Are you still awake? Writing in the infinite space between protons and electrons. Moving on.
posted by DMP at 11:55 AM
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