I'm having one of those days where I don't really like people. (Generally speaking.)
Does everyone feel this way? Every once and awhile?
Two examples: I'm in a CTLT Web 2.0 Presentation today (I signed up hoping to learn more about del.icio.us), and this idiot's cell phone goes off. (Imagine: he's sitting in the front row in a computer lab. And the presenter is standing next to him.) He doesn't silence the phone and apologize. NO, he TAKES THE CALL!!! HE TALKS ON THE PHONE DURING THE PRESENTATION!!! WTF?!?!
Then I sign into my blog and find this ad about some lady who has a book based off her blog which is a bunch of to-do lists (huh?), much like PostSecret lists secrets. While I do like PostSecret (they rock!), I don't like this lady. (Disclaimer: I'm sure I would like her if I met her, but I'm saying this for effect and to illustrate how I don't like people today.) How do these people make money off of this stupid shit? Who do they know? And how can one call this stupid shit art? I got my freakin' MFA. I have freakin' debt. And I can't get this blog turned into a book to save my life! WTF?!?!
In order to stay sane, I'm brainstorming career changes. I need to getaway from these crazy people.
Sadly, I realize they are everywhere.
I think I need a career change that involves being a hermit.
OK, OK, I know God's trying to make me humble and appreciate others' art and feel love and kindness for all that is good, smart, happy, and wonderful. And all this is really nice. Really, really nice.
But today it's pissing me off.
The more I think about creative non-fiction and writing and art, the more the "I" is becoming so boring and drab to me. Even me as an "I" is Snooze Fest '07. And the more I hear about these specialized books like a to-do-list-blog-turned-book, the more I feel disgusted by art, consumerism, and self exploitation. Which makes me wonder what is the point of art today? And wonder whether I really want to contribute to this whole mess of culture. And wonder why I blog and pick blog topics like these that are way too honest and make me look like a schmuck.
Is this frustration stemming from jealous or some inner-battle to get to the heart of my own art and beyond my "I" in my essays and poems? Or is it some intellectual fight with art and society? Or just end of the semester stress? Or dare I be cliche and chuck it up to PMS?
All sound equally good.
Right now, all I know, for sure, is I need something like a to-do-list-blog-turned-book, so I can work a hell of lot less and play on Facebook a hell of a lot more.