Posts (page 2)
That's what the iPod chose to play as I was approaching the frenzied Christmas-style parking at the community college I've been attending, on Monday (part of the learning process must include Trolling For Parking Spaces 101).
As if a reminder was in order. It's a discipline to walk from the car to classes, and not notice that I stick out like a sore thumb, what with this crop of Nick Lowe gray on my head.
Still, if any Beach Boys song was appropriate, that was the one.
If any further irony was necessary, there's the sign at the top of this post. It's right behind where I park at the Fredericksburg campus, on the other side of some pretty spindly fledgling-fir border landscaping. The name may not be spelled correctly, considering the sit-com, but Gabe Kaplan is a bit seedy himself, on the poker circuit.
It still spells out "Welcome Back".
Four weeks in, it's no less the ordeal than when I first stepped past basic education. Farting around is counterproductive. You Will Study.
The cast, so far:
Olga, Finnish She-Wolf: If this is what Finns are like, I'm glad I'm a hybrid. One thing I always hated about school is rigid, no-reading-between-the-lines lectures. And tons of homework, from two different websites, a textbook, a workbook, and a photocopied "booklet" of stuff culled from everywhere else. This is Spanish class... and I feel like I know less than when I arrived. But, I will not be defeated.
Boomer: Doonesbury, the comic strip, introduced the quintessential hippie of the same name... in the animated feature, as he approached the huddle of his offense (a hippie quarterback?) you could hear the sound of wind chimes. That's this guy, alright. Design classes area all about "thinking outside of the box", and so it is.
However... my table-mates, the zaftig SuicideGrrl and The KingOfHipHop and I titter at his completely inappropriate remarks to the class. It's possible to know more about an instructor than is prudent in a social setting.
Old School: computer graphics class. He was there in the heyday of printing, and got out at the right time. Perhaps, the same can be said of me. Regardless... this part is stepping up.
The Boss: A dead-ringer for my former supervisor. Probably went to the same University--conducts Basic Drawing class. Since I flunked second-year art in high school, and never went back, this is the biggest revelation: I can still draw. And, I want to. This is where the encouragement comes from... and the inspiration to throw something on paper after the previous, suffocating lectures.
I've gone through a 36-page 18 X 24 sketch tablet in 14 days... and do more, just because.
That's fifteen credits, right there.
I have no idea where this is going to go... though, the suggestion of teaching art was brought up, by my professor, today. I wanted to say, "those who can't do, 'teach', right?" But, thought better of it, present company considered.
Anything beats idleness and self-doubt... and concrete ideas sound like a "step up", these days.
Now, it's not typical to write twice in a day. It's not "typical", the experience I'm about to relay, either.
Not of earth-shattering import, but weird as shit, anyway:
Just before that trip to the VEC, yesterday, I stopped for a pack of American Spirits. Leaving the storefront, I had to squeeze between two cars at the curb. In one sat a Kenny-Rogers clone (albeit a very local version), pounding on his car door to the radio blaring,
"Take a load off, Fanny... Take a load for free..." That old song by The Band. I hadn't considered that song a door-banger, previously.
Minutes ago, warming my feet on the sun-backed concrete steps, making my plan of small-town attack, wafting tinnily up the hill through the trees at a neighbor's backyard, was that SAME DAMNED LYRIC.
I don't know what that's supposed to mean. But, "taking a load off" sounds pretty appropriate.
The understatement of the Century.
"Delinquent", maybe.
"Juvenile", Hell No.
I'm pretty damned "delinquent", right now, however... still wearing my Guinness PJ bottoms at 10AM. Quintessential Blogger Stereotype.
That was my MO through spring and most of summer, trolling for jobs and trying to keep my mind alive when I was scraping the bottom of the ego barrel. No more. Up at six and on the road, and not long after to school, there is no such luxury.
Until today: an honest-to-god "day off". Thankfully, my sub at the radio station swings back from NYC to take over the mike for the first Friday in ages. It's been my "rock", but I think maybe I had to learn to function at break-neck speed for a while to appreciate downtime, of which there has been precious little, of late.
If nothing else, i've exorcised the old ghost of my elementary school report cards... the ones where I got "U" (read, "Unsatisfactory") for "Uses Time Wisely". Good thing, too, that those megadoses of knee-strengtheners seem to be doing the trick: the Fredericksburg campus parking lot is like Christmas at the mall... and "Graphic Communication" courses dictate having to saddle up like a pack mule (with a box of writing/painting instruments, a bulky portfolio with drawing board, and the ubiquitous backpack). It's bad enough to be an old fucker, without having to resort to a scooter to get to class.
What I Have Learned:
Returning to a full-time course load has had this effect: Like taking a big shit.
While it would be easy to get into excretory descriptions for comedy's sake, that's the truth. Sitting on the steps of the back porch with a much-deserved "refreshment", one evening after returning home, that idea came to mind. For too long, there's been a blockage caused by fairly shitty things that kept coming, one-after-another. Things that build up. Things you can't let go, because you hadn't the time to deal with the previous ones. Re-emphasis has sent a lot of that swirling down the drain... one way.
Responsibilities are still there... and I still miss terribly those that I "miss". But those obsessions are no longer an option when you're constantly "On Air", 24-7.
Speaking of responsibilities... I had to make a mad dash to the employment commission, after class, yesterday. Forty-five miles away. Within minutes before the office closed. Why? Because, somehow, my benefits were cancelled when I started classes. Not unappreciative of the opportunity to attend school by the Pleasure Of The State, if I'd known that would happen, I could have had a Plan B (plus, they pay for books, too... but Art classes don't use books. They use Michael's and A. C. Moore as a substitute, and art supplies are just as costly, cumulatively, as my $275 Spanish textbooks). Driving on fumes, contemplating ramen as a dietary supplement, and my already-disappearing bank balance was becoming a little, "panicky".
But, once I'd gotten past the snippy, stick-up-the-ass receptionist (who seemed bent on taking me down a notch for being a "privileged character" who didn't do his paperwork... who was never advised of the existence of said paperwork), it all got cleared up.
Which led to this experience, emailed to my friends in the Jazz department at the radio station:
"hey, Jazzheads...
>
> Talk about serendipitous moments. I had to go to the unemployment commission in Culpeper to iron out why I've been driving on fumes for more than two weeks, and this guy was chatting with the condescending key-puncher about his dad, a celebrated doo-wop singer from back in the day.
>
> He was all about promoting his dad, even to the point of mimicking his dance moves, right in the office. They had to unlock the door to let us out, afterwards, we'd been talking so long.
>
> They may have been a one-hit wonder, but he hit the "American Bandstand" with a top-forty song, and he's still with us.
>
> Who's interested? Something might be coming in the mail from him."
Two unlucky people, in the same place, at the same time.
I still think that things happen for a reason. It wasn't so easy to remember that, recently. Until right now, it wasn't easy to express it, either.
It's time to put on some pants.
Before I get too deeply into this, I have to clarify the record: to me an "artist" is someone who creates things with passion... has a large body of work... has exhibited to the public... and has maybe made a little bit of money at it. You can't turn your back on your talents, but it just never seemed like it was something that could sustain a lifestyle, i.e. "eating", "lodging", "transportation", or "love".
Therefore, I have hesitated... no, refused to call myself one. I've hardly qualified, spurred on only when the mood hit me, have little in the house to show for it, only "exhibited" at a little museum/junk store (and sold nothing for over two years), and have given away most of my "work" to friends.
In fact, I used to give little pieces of me to women I have been involved with... but, not long after, the break-ups seemed inevitable. So, I superstitiously hesitated, after a while. I figured it became the "kiss of death"... but that's not exactly true, anymore.
When I first lost my job, I'd planned on subscribing to an online university to at least keep myself current, and somewhat relevant. The irony there is that you have to have the latest-and-greatest system and programs on hand to even register... "ironic" for someone with no means. And that shit is expensive, too, considering you're not even onsite.
Regardless, I made those investments with the remains of my 401k. In my mind, that's what it would take to get back in the game. The Game has been reluctant to consider this, in the past five months.
So, perhaps this new frugality has caused me to turn a corner. One thing it has done is make me driven to draw.
With my more "complicated" classes in the mornings, those in the afternoon that involve paper and pencil have been a challenge I didn't know I'd set up to... but, they've turned out to be therapeutic. Instead of fiddly little microscopic renderings, they've gone large, and frequent.
There's something about having to make something happen, on demand, that's set a little fire.
But, where that goes is hazy. Like, two years worth of "hazy". This program that I've signed onto takes two of them. I'll still be on the dole (at half my normal "salary"), and will be two years older when it's completed. That allows for no extras. No play. No travel. No diversions. Anathema of the concrete support that most women expect of a man my age.
Definitely, not aphrodisiac.
Still, I listen to the critiques that my instructors give. They think that there's something there... and, a good critique from a college instructor is encouraging.
I must still eat. Have a place to sleep. Transport myself to class.
But, I'm invested. No longer "hesitant".
Perhaps, I'll be a dried up husk when all is said and done. Maybe somebody will make some cash off of what I leave behind.
Crazier things have happened.
It's probably obscene that I've gone back to school. Realistically, I'm chronologically-challenged enough to be an elder to most of the attendants of my classes... but, I don't care. If anyone has a problem with me, I haven't noticed... nor will I notice. I'm on a mission: to survive.
A week ago, I'd been lost between the cracks in the System (in provincial Virginia, digital coordination between State agencies is non-existent). To get this show on the road, I had to fight.
Giving up was not an option. A flurry of persistent emails and telephone calls in four days got me back in the game, though it's been a question of catch-up to the "Nth" degree. Up at 6 AM. Budgeting my time. Missing meals. Baking in the August sun.
Nothing good comes easily, however.
Consequently, I've drawn more in the past four days than I have in the past four years.
No challenge means no progress. Ironically, I may be no better off when I'm done, corporately-speaking.
So... Fuck Corporations. I'm on my own.
As It is written.
That said... my table mate in Fundamentals of Design is the most attractive Russian that I've ever encountered.
I don't plan to be on my own, forever.
If there's one thing that I have learned in the past five months, it's that idleness is not a good thing for me. Beer is no substitute for acceptance, or affection.
What was granted to me, in talent, is not lost.
I ain't done, yet.
Five days ago, I was nearing the end. One more blast of shitty Karma, the carrot-on-a-stick of finally heading towards something fucked up by bad accounting and state agencies that wouldn't talk to one another. No amount of legwork and pro-acvite-ness can defeat the blind onslaught of the uncaring Machine.
I was actually considering wasting away on unemployment until its inevitable, dreadful expiration... it seemed ordained. Life number eight, cat. Here's your smock, and the cash register is over there.
For each of those days, I emailed and telephoned school and State. The school suggested I email the instructors and ask to be added prior to the paperwork being fixed. Of course, they didn't know them... nor did the website have current addresses. "Maybe you could use their first initial and last name and make up an address". As half-assed as that sounded, it worked. Every Professor said, "come on".
So, Like Tony Orlando, I awoke at the Crack Of Dawn this morning, and drove to my first class, to which I was not officially registered (the business office still closed at that hour). Two trips to counseling and one to the business office... and the deal was closed.
So, Old Fucker: student.
By the time I got to drawing class (at a different location), I'd hit the wall. Even my tired little 20-year-old Miata was feeling the stress.
The instructor (a gritty neo-hippie type) asked up to draw the still life (a pile of bricks) to see what our abilities were. Fifteen minutes in, I was done... and told, "see you on Wednesday". Sprung. Freed. To fight another day, without distractions.
One request: that we "write a bio, to see where we're coming from".
Oh, I can do that:
Reality: I'm old enough to be the grandfather of most of my classmates.
Reality: Natural talents arise in a "Do It... Now!" environment, regardless of chronology.
Disclaimer: I failed tenth grade art class. I was too infused with Iggy & the Stooges, and hormone-challenged. My art "teacher" never taught technique to minors... and never created something that anyone could learn from.
For seventeen years, I've been a DJ at the University of Virginia. That makes me feel like a perennial student (music, ever evolving, makes you remain one)... though I have no degree, baccalaureate or otherwise. I kept a dead-end job in a printing company to keep my Fridays open for the broadcast, though the two years I completed at Bridgewater College prepared me for better. I learned a lot of art history and architecture... but, no technique.
Then, a victim of the first in a long line of Recessions, lack of finances (as it usually does) brought that to an early end.
After I left school, I entered the printing profession, in what was called then called "pre-press". That meant "film assembly", or the more hilarious term, "stripper"... a photographic process involving darkroom, light tables, mylar, red tape and blades, transferring customer's artboards to film, plate, and then, press. It was "industry standard".
Then came the computer...
...and Photoshop. And Illustrator. And dozens more programs that dictate creativity.
Improvise-Adapt-Overcome to survive. Which I thought I did. Instead, I was undone by Free Trade, expediency, corporate philosophy, and India. Five months ago.
Bottomline: the creativity was sucked out... though, realistically, you aren't "creating" with someone else's ideas.
Pen, pencil, and paint-to-surface suffered, with rare exceptions when the impulse demanded. Photography was easier, but "digital technology" means any one is a "photographer". Damn you, digital technology (I'll keep the Japanese anime, however... when real ability and CGI work together).
Those five months taught me one thing: you never stop learning. You do not learn unless you are challenged. If someone throws a paint-filled balloon at the wall and says, "create from that!", that is what you learn from. By doing.
So, "doing". That's why I'm here... and that's where you find "directions".
Learning is all about "direction".
I may get tossed out by another whim of bureaucracy... but, I'm gonna soak it in.
And take it somewhere else. Even if it means airbrushing surfboards in Bumfuck, California... it's going someplace. Else.
A cardinal rule that I have broken: never intimate optimism, written or spoken, until
such cause for optimism has come to pass. I have learned this, many times... but, of course, excitement and anticipation often gets the better of me.
That'll learn ya, durn ya.
So, why am i sitting here, typing this, when I should be dressed, showered, and sitting at a desk in an institution of higher learning? It's a short chapter in a long story, begun seventeen hours ago.
After taking some good-natured ribbing for gathering together my "pencil boxes" and "composition books", I decided to look over my course offerings to see if I'd missed anything. There's always some minute detail that makes you look like an unprepared ass, so I thought I'd be proactive. Sure enough, one of my art classes synopses mentioned that "the instructor will notify concerning materials needed prior to the commencement of classes".
"Uh-oh", I thought. Somewhere, I hadn't been paying attention. There was no other notification from the school, so it seemed a good idea to check the student email system. Not linked to my home addresses, I had to set it up.
All spam... except for the last message, that said "due to non-payment of fees, you have been dropped from all classes". Dated, August 13th. The "dropping elevator" feeling, so familiar to me, immediately manifested.
Terse, semi-insulting phone calls from the school about my negligence prompted more calls to the employment commission and the workforce center. Ward Of The State that I am, it was their generosity that made this pipe dream a "reality". And, since I'd gone to both campuses on the first day of book sales and had them paid for without a hitch, I wrongly assumed that all systems were "go". There were funds for them, right?
Wrong, numbnuts.
This is what you get for being a Welfare Mutha. There are cracks specifically manufactured for beggars to fall through... I learned that from the free lunch line and the doctor's office in high school.
And they ask me why I am such a depressoid fucker.
It's still too early to drink, right?
...and I'm talking to myself, again.
I type that, and I can see with my mind's eye, exactly where it was lifted it from:
set background, final scene, The Blues Brothers. As the original band (including two members of Booker T. & the M.G.s) pumps out "Jailhouse Rock", in prison denim, to the residents of the Joliet Slammer... there, it's spelled out on the jailhouse wall.
It's my tongue-in-cheek motto.
Thursday, Back To School, full-time. That should be an interesting experience, after decades elsewhere... just like how I wondered what those bluehairs were doing in my classes, back in the day. Fuck It: I Want To Learn. It may make me no more employable than now (since who hires old fucks with a new certificate?), but, I'm going to take what sinks in and run with it. It sure won't hurt the portfolio. The "art" portfolio, that is.
Way past time to jerk this slow train through Limbo off the tracks. With any luck, my brain won't have turned into Jello after five months of beers, small-engine repair, torn cartilage, hunting to the ends of the earth for CS3 (fruitlessly), going through the motions in the jungle-turns-to-desert Virginia summer. There are, of course, no guarantees... but I haven't lost it, this far. But, instead of waiting for the next hit to come, I'm going to walk over all the shit that's gone down like it's just more gravel in the road. And, I suppose it is.
Goddamn, I wish I was at the beach, right now. I'll trade gravel for sand, any day.
You know that it's going to be blistering when the thermometer reads 85 before ten in the morning... and, considering it displayed 105.7 yesterday afternoon (in the sun), "uncomfortable" might be a euphemistic spin on what it'll be like before the sun goes down. White-Hot Sky. Highest temps, a month late. Another odd twist to this Stay-cation in LimboLand.
I forsee being anointed by the garden hose as my salvation. Several times. Or I will stink, mightily.
Obviously, I've been at a loss for words these past few months, both written and read: though I troll the 'net for current events and jobs, read precious few blogs, keep up on photographic things, I've not read a book. "Literary constipation", I call it. Except for that brief period of being immobilized, and picking at a few chapters of Sarah Vowell's most recent, the only spines I've cracked have been picture books. That will soon change, by necessity.
The last time I entered anything here, I was at my ebb. A reject in all aspects. Maybe it's inherent in my "maleness", but being relegated to redundancy and uselessness turned me into a basket case for months: hunkered down at home, going through the motions to exist, traveling to those places I needed to go as if on rails, conserving every drop of gas with no wasted straying from course. Very "opposite". Very not me.
But, since last writing, it's as if something snapped me out of the funk. "It" was the last humiliation at the doctor's office, I think. The last person I saw there was $Bill's wife, who handles the billing there. It was she that suggested that I sell everything and enter Medicaid, with a laugh. That they are complete hedonists and live together for convenience was particularly galling. Consequently, as they avoid the unpleasantness of lesser beings, I've not heard a word from them since. I don't feel too broken up by this.
What I did, after, was evaluate. No surgery. Instead, I learned to megadose on glucosamine/chondroitin and vitamins, and finally force myself to eat regularly. I registered for school, which begins next week (if I don't get hired before then. As If).
I launched myself at time-consuming projects (to be displayed, soon). Made myself move when I felt least like it. Forward motion, any which way. Finally, hopefully assessing that this five-month ordeal is a pit stop.
It may yet collapse into a smoldering heap... but, the wheels are turning.
