From the earliest episodes of my life, I was always sure to be found reading, writing, doodling, organizing, and with the most algebraic of purposes, goofing, interrogating, readying, doubting, resisting, stalking and preparing the way for an artistic life not so much of grandiose deeds, but of exiled suppositions washing up against the keen but jagged shore of internal contradictions an authentic American life seems to require these days (and nights).
In highschool creative writing class, I was always by the dumbest of girls accused of and penalized for straying from the topic…
There was always the question of 1) purported priorities, 2) suspect qualifications and 3) undulating distortions of the gear grinding social machine that debauch my urgency for creative expression. Nevertheless, this foul trinity of “doubts about delivery systems” stitching the social fabric from wooly to bully, served to compel my artistic inertia whenever and wherever this clinging to my guns of memory would take me.
Since I had no natural or precocious talent for drawing, or singing, or painting, or writing for that matter, I thus fixated on the gushing fountain of ideas I discovered in the leniency of books, sports, and philosophical stand-up, from which I drew local inspiration and occasional comfort. A strong memory for useless and pointless knowledge mixed with a custodian’s command of numbers, were not only my only apparent gifts, but wonderful fetching gifts which I had been taught would take me far. Practicing these mediocre talents with a flair and flamboyance native to my rank in the sibling charts, always filibustering doubts until I dropped from exhaustion, natural cynicism, and somber recoil of impedances I could parse for any morsel of certainty, has been my stock in trade, and shall no doubt continue until the day arrives when I no longer find joy in the real and sudden uselessness of it all.