Again with the Sighing

I should do something. I should get out. The trouble is, every time I get out, I want to spend money, and spending money is not allowed to happen, thus, I stay in, I get bored, I get moody, and the cycle continues.

I'll leave early for tutoring tonight. I'll hit up the beach for a walk, free my mind a bit.

I've cancelled the appointment for this afternoon. I called and called and called, and no one ever answers. I think they should be hiring a admin person, not substitutes. I never understand businesses who do not answer their phones. I worked ever so briefly with a company earlier this year who had neglected to ever have an answering machine, even though no one was in their "office" for four days a week. And you get business HOW? Baffles the mind. Some things seem elementary, or maybe I'm just an untapped genius who sees clarity in the murkiest of water. I'd buy that. Sure. Untapped, indeed.

I've been reading The Alchemist with my students. They're a group of 40-something Asian ladies who come for coffee each week, and we read the book together, and I explain what's going down. The Alchemist, if you've never read it, is about a young boy who chooses to follow his dreams. He does all he can to get to the pyramids in Egypt, where he has dreamed of finding treasure.

We're near the end now, in a passage about life throwing the hardest tests at you just before you accomplish your goals. Insert pause for thought here.

Here I am, having taken much of the last year (to the day) to seek that which has always eluded me -- the time to write. In a way, I feel like a failure. I have no book, no contracts, no sales. I have little of proof that I have, in fact, achieved a fucking thing. Little except the realization that my other blog is in the top 9,000 of 45 million blogs in the world. This, to me, feels like some small accomplishment.

Apparently, I'm readable. Nice to know. I have no money, no reward, no prospects, no surety that my rent is to be paid come August first, but I have some small inkling of having done something towards my future.

And now the city has been peppered with my resume. It is here, it is there, it is everywhere, just like green eggs and ham and Sam I Am.

I should be terrified, and deep under the scales of my skin, some terror does indeed reside. But under that, around that, is this unquenchable feeling that somehow, some way, it will all work out. It always has, it always does. My life's known tragedy and adversity and hardships, but I've always, always come through it. There's just this seed of faith I have that has never withered nor died, and I doubt it will this time, either.

If I am to receive no responses by next week, then I will start applying for shitty retail jobs in my area. I WILL get by until something good comes.

It's so hard, feeling like you're on the verge of something, to keep on hanging on. The nails start to get bloody as you scrape and claw to hold that tenuous grasp on the edge of the mountain, but it's all worth it, they tell me, when you achieve that summit. I need to believe that. I have to. I'm doing everything I can, and forcing myself to believe I really am everything I believe I am as I send out every cover letter, every resume. I am what you need. I know it. Hire me. Then you'll know it, is what I persistently tell myself with every resume I send.

Can you not see the font of creativity that bubbles and spurts within me? Can you not fathom the innovation and initiative I bring to every thing I do? Can you not grasp that I am miles ahead of some of my competition?

These things echo and echo and echo, and then they drown everything else out. It's really unfortunate, these unanswered bits of rhetoric, because eventually you start to wonder, "If they can't see it, maybe it just really isn't there."

Sigh. And sigh. And sigh. But it is there. I know it is. And they will see it. But will they see it in time? Will I make my ends meet?

Unfortunately, there's no scriptwriter hanging around to answer the pressing questions of this exciting saga. It is not maktub just yet. (Arabic for "it is written.")

Stay tuned. The drama can't continue much longer. One can only hope, at least.

(On the upside, I've finally gotten a chiropractic appointment. Looks like I'm spending some money after all. I need to; I'm a mess of alignment. My skeleton goes hither and thither, and it's not helping the fluctuations of mood. I'll network and see if she has any tips. I'm bringing my fucking resume. Hell, she's an employer. And I rock. And her receptionist is a fucking TOOL. Five hours have passed since the office opened, and she calls me NOW from my message? That's service? Not in my world, baby. When did the level of service I've always provided become so damned obselete, huh? I'd like to school the masses, man.)