Deconstructed Bio

This would be the adapted part, where bitching about my stupid job cuts to some really telling Terence Malik scene where beauty is revealed.

Last night got away from me into a sea of noise.  Accosted twice by crazies outside then later by the infomercials for God. It is a surreal whirling dervish of existence, if you let it. I feel the cognitive dissonance setting in. It has always been a battle with time. It has always been a struggle between what you were supposed to have done and what actually happened and that you feel shame over or somehow as if it's caused your dual unhappiness now. Dual loss, going for the triple crown of emotional pain this year or so it seems.

I have never been one to say I can't wait to get through today, but I can't wait to get today over with. I cherish the time I am alive and appreciate most of the wonder that comes my way--which is why I particularly dislike sitting there doing nothing for no reason and being treated as if I actually don't have all the experience, talent and personality that I do. I have to tone it down and then sit there like a flub not knowing how not to work, but hating that the job is so stupid a waste of time. I should just go in late. Squeeze the actual work that I do that will matter into an intense period of stress -- because I am late again, because you're always late on a job like this, because no one is happy with your work no matter what you do. 

 So I bite my lip, 'til it bleeds.  Bide my time 'til it heeds a warning. I have been feeling that warning has come lately.

I want to get through the stupidity of sitting there, not being allowed to do the job that I do, but instead just having to do things in ways that I know are not right and meanwhile I should have done something more fulfilling and useful with my life, if this is how my so-called career is going to wind down. Because I made the grave mistake of committing to a career (because my mother had regretted not doing so) and in the process, my body stopped behaving the way I expected it would and I just want to get through today, to get to the other side of what I need to do with my own life, and not what I can suppress for others, to please them or just to stay alive because it's impossible to read. The whole experience triggers dangerous things for me, to the extent that there are very real forces that could reasonably lead me to implode. My brain, among the aggregate snappers at this stage--especially after almost biting the dust, again, thanks to disloyalty and unfathomable treatment by one's peers, consistently and without fail.

So here we are again, but this time, I am jumping out of my skin to get thru time and that is the antithesis of how I live my own life which is trying to fix it to cram as much possible amazing shit in there for what now feels like the last act of my life--a long Act 3 perhaps but definitely a final stretch, and I feel so down, so unfulfilled by the family thing, so alone that I actually want it more that way, seemingly forgetting all the pain that people have caused me over my time here on earth.

I woke up one day and realized I gave it all away, all my life,  my creativity, my brain power, my trust, my energy to others, who didn't appreciate it, for the most part, and I gave it all to those times trying to make up for something, I suppose, I really don't want to think about the reasons anymore, it makes my head explode.

It's all so convoluted and sad and I hate that I only have the choice of 7 fonts. But I am doing this in preparation for some sort of useful representation of my experience, skill, talent and brainpower than threatens most people in this town and those it doesn't are the ones I hope to find before I give up, again, on this industry.

The fiction will be attempt to monetize my cine-skin fantasy fiction series that I started last fall, but it's unorganized and I so wish I had a secret editor admirer to help me pull together, and the other writing covers scripts and confessional auto biographical Bukowski memoir style. 

The plan is to cover two scripts, maybe three, get some sort of license to teach since I obviously can't do, move to the country and teach in some east podunk community college and cut off all ties to happily married friends with perfectly adjusted kids, deleting all the profiles below.


Auto-biographical Mess


Scripts on cocktail napkins