Creative Control

Miscellaneous Mental Musings of an Emerging Artist

Exhaustion level.

It’s not that I haven’t had anything to say.

For almost a month now I’ve been walking past the door to this place, peering past the dust on the windows to see that everything was as I’d left it. I don’t recall putting the plastic over the furniture. I didn’t know a cobweb could get that big. If I listen closely I can still hear the low sonic report of a phonograph needle trapped at the far edge of a rotating 45. What I used to think of as permanent residence has become something of a summer cottage.

I find the hunk of shaped metal in my pocket, let it re-acquaint itself with the lock. I don’t recall locking the door. I don’t know what I have in here that’s worth stealing.

I’m here to sit down for awhile. I’m here to lie down for awhile. I’m here because tonight I’m very tired.

I’m tired of my uncertainty; of both that personal quality that is my doubt and hesitation and that external sensation of the unknown that belongs to nobody but which I’ve claimed as mine. I’m tired of having a different definition of the word “soon” than everybody who has used that word to answer my spoken and unspoken questions. I’m tired of my paranoid fantasies and I’m tired of their increasing plausibility.

I’m tired of job listings for copyeditors and proofreaders filled with spelling, grammar, and punctuation errors. I’m tired of meeting people who are paid very well to be incompetent at jobs I could do just as well with an icepick lodged in my skull. I’m tired of job boards filled with scam artists and I’m tired of wearing this PIGEON sign on my back. I’m tired of jobs I currently perform for which half of the work seems to be about defending how you do the other half of the work.

I’m tired of forgiving people who speak horrific, hurtful words to each other and who then accept forgiveness as a license to commit the same crime again. I’m tired of being told what I think and believe based on actions I’ve never done and sentences I’ve never spoken. I’m tired of self-important society peacocks and the utterly insincere games they insist others play, games that are so stacked against the hapless contestant as to make casinos cry foul. I’m tired of even the happiest moments in the lives of my loved ones being picked over by uncaring clinicians, checking to make sure that everything is going according to a plan that they didn’t write but that they feel comfortable exploiting to their own ends.

I’m tired of listening to people proclaim that they are opposed to the president’s policies but whose description of said policies amount to incomplete hyperboles and coded language about anything except the president’s policies. I’m tired of listening to the loudest voices in the world do nothing more productive with those voices that a pair of second graders couldn’t do for cheaper and with fewer consequences for the rest of us. I’m tired of having to tell myself, out loud, to walk away from the man insisting that the sky is burgundy just because somebody he doesn’t care for has pointed out that the sky is blue. I’m tired of men and women so afraid of losing their comfortable seats that they refuse to work very hard on doing anything except convincing their constituents that they are indeed working very, very hard.

I’m tired of having my optimism tested more often than it is validated.

I’m tired of my anger. I’m tired of my complaints. I’m tired of carrying them around with me like seeds I’ve been waiting to plant.

I’m very tired tonight and I’m going to lie down here for awhile. When I wake up tomorrow I expect to be very refreshed and energetic, solar paneled and grasshopper-legged.

But tonight has actually been much longer than tonight, and I have no idea when tomorrow will arrive.

Good night, for now.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s


This entry was posted on February 22, 2010 by in Essay, Life, Mental Health, Politics, Work, Writing.
%d bloggers like this: