No such luck.
Waiting
Nearer, my heart, to me . . . My cigarette
Endures an apotheosis; I feel
More for the grey twirl than I mull or whet
God's promise . . . probably the butt is real
- excerpt from Poems 1950-1964 by John Berryman
I told my mother I always feel a little bluesy between 1:00 pm and 7:00 pm and I don't know why. She said it's because there are no good television shows on during those hours.
She's not the only one cracking jokes. Times like these I think God must have a sense of humor as well. I ask for a sign, he sends me a SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK signpost. I ask for an answer, he tells me maybe. I ask for a break and I end up in heartbreak.
If I'm the silver, then this all must be the fire. Or as Liz Gilbert wrote in Eat. Pray. Love:
"I've come to believe that there exists in the universe something I call 'The Physics of The Quest' — a force of nature governed by laws as real as the laws of gravity or momentum. And the rule of Quest Physics maybe goes like this: 'If you are brave enough to leave behind everything familiar and comforting (which can be anything from your house to your bitter old resentments) and set out on a truth-seeking journey (either externally or internally), and if you are truly willing to regard everything that happens to you on that journey as a clue, and if you accept everyone you meet along the way as a teacher, and if you are prepared – most of all – to face (and forgive) some very difficult realities about yourself... then truth will not be withheld from you.' Or so I've come to believe."Now, despite the flames and smoke, I am beginning to see something shiny and new within myself. That perhaps, I'm more complete than I thought I was. Like the Missing Piece, I've been gradually rolling, albeit a bit clumsily and inebriated at times. My corners are beginning to smooth out like a rounded tortilla chip. If you don't know what I'm talking about, read: The Missing Piece Meets the Big O.
"You've changed," Fatim told me that brisk sunny morning in Paris. She had walked with me to the last train station I would see in Europe at the end of my journey there. "Don't stay too long..."
She was referring to Michigan. To America. To the mindset that I had been in before I went to Europe. That rut I told her I was afraid I would sink back into when I arrived. I agreed with my army of supporters that I wouldn't stay too long. Three months at most.
It's going on month four and I've been fighting that rut since the day I've arrived.
So afraid of reverting back to my old ways, I have been fighting everything. This town, my family, my friends, the roof over my head, and even my own face.
I'm still searching for a suitable job. Suitable in the sense that it is in a field I'm interested in and one that I am also qualified for. Oh yeah, and a job in which I can finally use my degree. That thing I spent five spears working for.
I could get all poetic but basically, job searching fucking sucks. Applying for jobs, thinking you have a good chance, getting close, then not landing the gig. The search continues...
Last week in particular was filled with many rejections in many facets of my life. I was depressed for about two days then I had to put my big girl panties on and deal with it. I mourned with friends, put on some lipstick, then began to kick life in the ass. As I continue my quest, I can't help but wonder if maybe I'm just doing it all wrong.
See, the reason I want to get a job is so I can have money. I need money so I can move. The reason I want to move is because I don't like living in Michigan. I live in Michigan because it's where my family lives. I live across the hallway from my parents because they're generous and kind enough to let me stay with them while I find such a job.
Anybody who is in or has been in my situation knows that this type of accommodation doesn't exactly make you feel like a proud adult. Also, it's not sexy. Masturbation is out of the question. Even when my mind does begin to float to far away lands where there is sun and sand and I'm in a bed and some very lucky gentleman is tracing the top of my panties with his tongue, I'm snapped out of it when my mom urgently cries out, "Helena, we didn't get the Comcast bill yet! Helena, can you believe this? Something fishy is going on with the mail. I bet it's ISIS. You know they have people in everywhere."
In my mother's household, ISIS is the cause to all of our problems.
"My paycheck is forty dollars short!"
ISIS.
"My phone isn't working!"
ISIS.
"I'm missing a sock!"
ISIS.
"I just got my car washed and some guy drove through a puddle next to me and now my car is all dirty again! What a fool!"
He was probably ISIS.
Also, we can't leave the dog out for too long because it will get kidnapped. There are dog "nappers" out there who are kidnapping dogs and holding them for ransom. It's a really scary world out there. No one is safe. Although, they're also probably linked to ISIS.
I told Jonathan about all of this. About how ISIS is using our family to get information on Americans and destroying our lives while they're at it. My mother especially tends to think the world is out to get her. Terrorists, the CIA, Mother Nature, and that guy at the 4-H Fair.
Jonathan said, "Well now I know where you get it from."
I've written about Jonathan a few times. He's my fried, my guru, my therapist, my drinking buddy, my nemesis... He is the unnamed friend to Henry in my John Berryman Dream Songs. Or maybe he is Henry. He's an honest gem in a world of rhinestones. I vent to him about all my hopes, fears, and annoyances with the world and my current predicament. During our last conversation, I told him about the various jobs I was still applying for, having lost some of my zeal after the last few rejections.
"I just have to get out of here." I told him and just about anyone else who would listen.
He agrees I need to get out of here. But he doesn't agree with my job searching aspirations.
"Helena, I'm going to tell you something," He said.
"Okay, I'm going to write this down!" I replied as he interrupted me saying, "Forget you have a degree."
I nodded on the other end of the line as I quickly repeated and jotted, "Forget degree," in all caps.
He knows how nuts I am. He continued with a smirk, "Get lobotomy."
"Get lob. Lo-bot-omy." I repeated and wrote.
"A-sap!"
"A-S-A-P."
I've been waiting for an answer to a question I don't really want answered. As Jonathan pointed out, I've been applying for jobs I don't exactly want but felt I needed. Or perhaps I did, but for the wrong reasons.
So just embrace where I'm at right now. Embrace my place. Embrace who I am in this place. Embrace the uncertainty. Embrace the people. Embrace the love. Embrace the sorrow. Embrace the insanity. Embrace the nuthouse.
"I told myself, 'All I want is a normal life'. But was that true? I wasn't so sure. Because there was a part of me that enjoyed hating school, and the drama of not going, the potential consequences whatever they were. I was intrigued by the unknown. I was even slightly thrilled that my mother was such a mess. Had I become addicted to crisis? I traced my finger along the windowsill. 'Want something normal, want something normal, want something normal', I told myself."
― Augusten Burroughs, Running with Scissors
Everything is temporary. This state is temporary.
And I'm okay.
Of 1826
I am the little man who smokes & smokes.
I am the girl who does know better but.
I am the king of the pool.
I am so wise I had my mouth sewn shut.
I am a government official & a goddamned fool.
I am a lady who take jokes.
I am the enemy of the mind.
I am the auto salesman and I lóve you.
I am a teenage cancer, with a plan.
I am the blackt-out man.
I am the woman powerful as a zoo.
I am two eyes screwed to my set, whose blind—
It is the Fourth of July.
Collect: while the dying man,
forgone by you creator, who forgives,
is gasping 'Thomas Jefferson still lives'
in vain, in vain, in vain.
I am Henry Pussy-cat! My whiskers fly.
- From 77 Dream Songs by John Barryman, 1964
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