Feelings of loserdom, and grappling with the reality of now

I have been away from this blog for a while, and I had a musing which simply begged it's way to my fingertips onto this computer screen. One of my students made a comment to the effect that he believed I was secretly very successful and doing a spectacular job at hiding that fact. There was some stuff that I read into that statement which basically entered the realm of being a teacher was the "Clark Kent" to my secret identity as an art world "Superman". I recognize that as an egocentric grandiose delusion. I'm a part time teacher working two teaching jobs, digging my way out of crippling student debt, living with my parents. I have had the very recent and inordinately fortuitous luck of exhibiting a substantial artwork in a National Museum. That is such a mind blowing occurrence to me as such a drifter in life with such a late start into anything which could be considered a career. And to one of my students I am "successful".
I understand perspective is very much at play here, and this student only sees one sliver of my reality. What he says and believes is a compliment, and I should take it as that, say "Thank you" and move on. But in my warped sense of what a successful thirty something should look like, the idea that I am successful is such a cognitive dissonance in what I understand to be successful.
Now this alone was just some existentialist ennui until I heard a very thought provoking episode of Citizen Radio where a 26 year old listener refers to himself as a live-with-parents-loser. He goes further to articulate how he is trying to make things better for himself. He was both very candid, and really funny in how he wrote about his situation. His plight prompted many people too empathize and reflect on their own very similar situation. This too, resonated with me, and hearing this caused my student's statement to echo. Unfortunately, in reflecting on my own situation and the age disparity, I felt a little bit worse in the apparent solidarity of college graduates in similar situations. I have friends who are married, have a place of their own, have a well established career with some job security and an overall sense of stability. Contrasting that my own life seems frenetic, and stress has a distinct rhythm which is concurrent with the stability of my income. The past four months have been more stable than the past three years.
Given the fact that I am among the generation of college graduates who had the misfortune of graduating into one of the worst economic times in the history of the United States, I can justify my current state. However, my mind has been warped by the narrative which has been pushed in the media, and socially for the past twenty years or so. In spite of my acknowledging the reality of my situation, cognitively, I have a dissonance which upon self-reflection, nags on me, and provokes the self-identification as a loser.

Making Things

Some weeks ago, one of the artists I am showing with at the National Veteran Art Museum told me I looked like someone who needed to drop all my responsibilities and make something. While I have issues letting go of commitments, I have started making things again. Taking a page from the methods of a friend, I started doing silhouette collages with duct tape sheets, and decorative papers. It is a start in terms of making things. As far as the methods go... well.... Imitation IS the sincerest form of flattery.

Impersonating Penguins

I had a most interesting experience today longboarding with some friends. There is a 9.5 mile trail/loop in a forest preserve not far from my house. My friends and I decided to go at it since it is a nice trail for biking, walking, skating, or whatever means of efficient ambulation you have. About 8 miles in there was a fork in the road which led to an offshoot, or you could keep going on the trail loop. My friends, being more avid and experienced longboarders than I had gone right and were turning around after a pair of cyclists directed them to the left as the route to continue the loop. This turn, I made with a gliding graceful effortlessness which made the subsequent events all the more contrasting. The turn was immediately followed by a downward incline which allowed me to pick up prodigious speed. I think I might have gotten a good 15-20 MPH on this downhill, which made the physics of what happened next all the more extraordinary and possibly, had someone had the fortuitous foresight, viral video fodder for the internet.

I must pause for a moment to discuss the downhill first and foremost. I live near Chicago, where everything is predictably flat. For the most part. There are softly rolling hills, if they could even be called that! Just understand that when I say hill, or downhill, this is referring to a segment of trail in which one must put forth minimal effort beyond leaning weight forward, if at all on a longboard, or a bike to increase speed to an equivalent of pedaling, or kick-pushing at maximum effort. That note/reference made clear, continuing....

I am barreling down this incline at an accelerated pace. A cyclist is at the base of a concrete and metal bridge over one of the many streams and brooks which dot the forest preserve. My lane is open, and I feel confident in my neophyte experience I can clear through. My eyes rapidly scan in that seemingly super-human speed in which your mind races and takes in all environmental information which permits, what at times seems to be automatic responses by more experienced individuals. As the distance between the bridge and I closes my eye catches the difference in tone of the concrete on the bridge. I can say I was maybe about 50+ feet away.
At 40 or so feet away I see a difference in the level between the concrete of the bridge and the trail. I calculate this to be between 1 and 1.5 inches. My body tenses in anticipation.
At 30ft, I have the infallible certainty that my 68mm wheels will not roll over that 1"-1.5" offset. I am wholly aware that my longboard has transformed from a leisurely ambulatory mechanism to a catapult/slingshot which is engaged with me as the human ammunition. There are two 8 inch steel supporting struts on either side. The one that concerns me most is the one on the left side of the bridge as that is the lane I am traveling in.
20ft. I lean slightly right, placing myself just left of the center dividing line of the trail.
10ft. My hands reflexively come up a bit to protect my face. I am eternally grateful I decided to invest in a helmet for longboarding, and doubly so that I am wearing it.
5ft. I square my shoulders and as my feet come free of my longboard. I do not scream or shout. I had no time. I am merely scanning the ground in front of me hoping I do not spear myself on one of the many twigs which last weeks storms littered on the concrete bridge. I fly for some indeterminate distance before having the wind knocked out of me. I slide gracefully like a penguin, Edward Norton's power animal in the movie adaptation of Palahniuk's "Fight Club" every nano-second, and planck time wistfully wishing it had been ice or snow as that would probably not have hurt as much. My hands bore most of the brunt of the graceful, and apparently gymnastically professional fall. My shirt had a few holes poked in it from my midsection dragging across the concrete. My pants to gained a "distressed" look fashionistas will pay 500 dollars for at some classy designer boutique. Even my Chuck Taylor lowtops got a scraping.

I got up to assess the damage, my hands looking bloody with drag marks on my palms. I noticed my left pinky finger opened up like a cherry cordial candy with a bite taken off revealing the cheery within, blood emerging like syrup, and Was that a pebble or a woodchip embedded in my finger? Was that a pebble or woodchip embedded deep in my finger where I need tweezers which I do not have to get it out?! My board rolls by me as I get up, and my first instinct is to get back on it and keep riding. The cyclist offered me his first aid kit, which I felt sure I did not need. It was all superficial wounds anyway. The cyclist and my friends remarked on how fortunate I was that I was wearing a helmet, that I did not impact the strut of the bridge, and how I fell like a pro and took the fall like a champ!

A little bit down the trail... like maybe 30ft, My vision blurred as whatever adrenaline high I was on which gave me the sense of well being rapidly faded. I took a seat on my board just off the side of the trail, fighting off waves of nausea and a strobe effect which my vision seemed to come and go like a looney tunes cartoon, and everything was dotted with grey blue and black motes. After a few minutes of swatting at mosquitoes which proved to be painful since my hand were scrapped, and made me look like I was in worse shape than I actually was because I was leaving blood stains where ever I squished a mosquito, my friends and I got back on our boards, finished the trail, and made our way back to my place where my friend used his medical expertise to dig the pebble which had become engulfed by my pinky. Apparently I clot very quickly and he had to reopen the wound to dig the debris out... quite possibly the least brave I have ever been while having someone tend to some injury or draw blood or what have you....

Pay it Forward 2011

A while ago, on facebook a friend of mine posted a status which read as follows:

"Pay It Forward 2011 ~ I promise to send something handmade to the first 5 people who leave a comment here. They must in turn post this as their status. The rules are that the items must be handmade by you and must be sent to your 5 people sometime in 2011. Happy gifting!"

Thus far I have only received 4 comments since posting this, and am tempted to post it again, if only to see if different people respond. I think the idea of something hand-made is romantic and idealistic, if only because we live in a world of ready-made, cookie cutter consumerism. Everything is pre-packaged and sanitized for your protection. It is like a facebook status, or an e-mail. It is quick, and instant, and requires very little effort on your part. A hand-made something, even if it is a home cooked meal, has what feels like a bygone sentiment which I fear is getting lost in the melange of life.

The wonders of snail-mail or the romanticism of a handwritten letter

I have a friend who recently shipped out for Marine Basic Training. I recently received a letter from him. I got immediately to reading in spite of all other "things-to-do" I had pending. He is doing well, and managing at staying out of the radar of bad things in training. He's a good Marine. I felt more connected and a greater sense of urgency and importance from that handwritten letter than I recall feeling from reading e-mails when I was over seas. A handwritten letter is far more substantial, literally, than a digital e-mail. He commented on how letters help "soothe the soul-burn" and to a degree being in the military does burn the soul. At least in Basic Training, it does. It makes you a harder person, and you are able to deal with more. I look forward to writing more letters to my friend. I am sure he will be happy to feel a little more connected to the world outside the garrison.