Sometimes it helps to know who you're actually mad at.
I get that we all occasionally, depending on the situation or day or time of, ahem, year, sort of feel entitled to a general sense of being short-handed, or put off, or pissed off. There are plenty of people in the world to feel disappointed by, multiple situations that all root with some person's poor decision (where can I get a t-shirt or a sandwich board that says "ME ME ME"?) and because of this we feel 100% alright with the fact that we own a little rage, a little anger, a little don't-mess-with-me-don't-ask-me step to our swag.
To take one large leap backwards for just a moment, we tend to have a very skewed sense of the order of things, of what a good life permits us or, rather, bows down before and presents to us. We have in mind that certain things make for success, or happiness, and that anything different (note, not less) is disappointing or not as enjoyable or not up to our standards. While that can certainly hold some undeniable truth, there is also something to be said for wishing ourselves well on our current avenue, rather than damning it every step of the way. It is most likely not how we imagined our lives to carry on, because it never really is, and it is most likely going to bring us to yet another unexpected course of action, another undesignated landmark, hopefully something out of the usual job-promotion-married-kids-die syntax. And hopefully something that has the capability to surprise us, to make us think, to dazzle us, if we dare, or to make us realize that perhaps there's something more for us than our limited minds can allow.
So what then about the bad days? About the days where everything feels so outrageously biased, the times when we assume others are undeserving, that we are better at one thing or another, that this world reeks of privilege, that we've been waiting longer, that our payout should be bigger, better, grander, now.
I don't know. For example, I suppose: am I mad at Snooki for being a New York Times best-selling author? (That, my friends, is the truth.) Maybe. A little, I guess. More bewildered than anything else, really. But I get it. Half of the time, art has been overtaken by industry, by business. SO, if a book topically based on venereal disease and clubbing is going to sell, it's going to sell. (Okay, okay, I'm through.) Still, we'd be better off not blaming other people for what we're not doing, for the things we want that they have. It's not their fault, as much as it isn't ours. If we're putting forth an honest effort, and if it works out for someone else sooner, we're going to have to live with that, challenge in hand, and know that we can hold out just a little bit longer. Still, you have to have days where your patience let's go. It's being kind to your own sanity, if nothing else. At the same time, despite those moments, if everything becomes a derivative of what is and isn't fair, we're going to find ourselves sorely disappointed with, well, almost everything. Hopefully with those few-and-far between moments of outrage, of feeling personally slighted by society or the industry or (heeellllo) the economy, we have an equal if not greater moment of clarity that provides the reminder, hey, we're all more or less going through the same thing. We can't compare ourselves to overnight successes, we can't hate our brothers and sisters for what they've accomplished, and we certainly can't be mad at ourselves when we've been trying our best all along.
With all of these things in mind, who is to say when we're going to make it big, or make it at all, when we're going to pull through a difficult time, or when we are going to stand up and notice that, despite what we would change, we have a pretty good life as it is; we have some irreplaceables, we have some new knowledge, some experience, some love that nothing in the world we make us retrace or give up. We can't see it all at once, and most days we can't see it at all from this valley where we stand, but it's there, it's our beacon in the darkness.
Overall, I still can't make sense of what I'm supposed to be doing with the things I enjoy or the parts of me I would like to call my talents. I don't know if they're mine alone, if they belong in my life in a bigger way, or if the time it takes for that recognition will wear me down, if I'm built to weather bigger storms than this, if there is something better for me in a new place entirely (perhaps with a nod back to Where in the world?), if my bags packed to their fullest can fit everything I carry with me, inside and out. So this means ... what? If nothing else, I suppose, that we should, sincerely as we can, be proud of the people who are making the most of this pretty dire situation we find ourselves in. If we can, applaud them, congratulate them, and wish them the best. If we can manage it, we might as well wish ourselves good possibilities, too. We might do our best to keep at it, to keep applying, announcing our arrivals, creating, crafting and, ahem, writing. It's who we are, whether or not someone reads it, analyzes it, critiques it, displays it, or puts it on the printed page. We are who we are, and the world, in one way or another, and in one time or another, will follow.
I get that we all occasionally, depending on the situation or day or time of, ahem, year, sort of feel entitled to a general sense of being short-handed, or put off, or pissed off. There are plenty of people in the world to feel disappointed by, multiple situations that all root with some person's poor decision (where can I get a t-shirt or a sandwich board that says "ME ME ME"?) and because of this we feel 100% alright with the fact that we own a little rage, a little anger, a little don't-mess-with-me-don't-ask-me step to our swag.
To take one large leap backwards for just a moment, we tend to have a very skewed sense of the order of things, of what a good life permits us or, rather, bows down before and presents to us. We have in mind that certain things make for success, or happiness, and that anything different (note, not less) is disappointing or not as enjoyable or not up to our standards. While that can certainly hold some undeniable truth, there is also something to be said for wishing ourselves well on our current avenue, rather than damning it every step of the way. It is most likely not how we imagined our lives to carry on, because it never really is, and it is most likely going to bring us to yet another unexpected course of action, another undesignated landmark, hopefully something out of the usual job-promotion-married-kids-die syntax. And hopefully something that has the capability to surprise us, to make us think, to dazzle us, if we dare, or to make us realize that perhaps there's something more for us than our limited minds can allow.
So what then about the bad days? About the days where everything feels so outrageously biased, the times when we assume others are undeserving, that we are better at one thing or another, that this world reeks of privilege, that we've been waiting longer, that our payout should be bigger, better, grander, now.
I don't know. For example, I suppose: am I mad at Snooki for being a New York Times best-selling author? (That, my friends, is the truth.) Maybe. A little, I guess. More bewildered than anything else, really. But I get it. Half of the time, art has been overtaken by industry, by business. SO, if a book topically based on venereal disease and clubbing is going to sell, it's going to sell. (Okay, okay, I'm through.) Still, we'd be better off not blaming other people for what we're not doing, for the things we want that they have. It's not their fault, as much as it isn't ours. If we're putting forth an honest effort, and if it works out for someone else sooner, we're going to have to live with that, challenge in hand, and know that we can hold out just a little bit longer. Still, you have to have days where your patience let's go. It's being kind to your own sanity, if nothing else. At the same time, despite those moments, if everything becomes a derivative of what is and isn't fair, we're going to find ourselves sorely disappointed with, well, almost everything. Hopefully with those few-and-far between moments of outrage, of feeling personally slighted by society or the industry or (heeellllo) the economy, we have an equal if not greater moment of clarity that provides the reminder, hey, we're all more or less going through the same thing. We can't compare ourselves to overnight successes, we can't hate our brothers and sisters for what they've accomplished, and we certainly can't be mad at ourselves when we've been trying our best all along.
With all of these things in mind, who is to say when we're going to make it big, or make it at all, when we're going to pull through a difficult time, or when we are going to stand up and notice that, despite what we would change, we have a pretty good life as it is; we have some irreplaceables, we have some new knowledge, some experience, some love that nothing in the world we make us retrace or give up. We can't see it all at once, and most days we can't see it at all from this valley where we stand, but it's there, it's our beacon in the darkness.
Overall, I still can't make sense of what I'm supposed to be doing with the things I enjoy or the parts of me I would like to call my talents. I don't know if they're mine alone, if they belong in my life in a bigger way, or if the time it takes for that recognition will wear me down, if I'm built to weather bigger storms than this, if there is something better for me in a new place entirely (perhaps with a nod back to Where in the world?), if my bags packed to their fullest can fit everything I carry with me, inside and out. So this means ... what? If nothing else, I suppose, that we should, sincerely as we can, be proud of the people who are making the most of this pretty dire situation we find ourselves in. If we can, applaud them, congratulate them, and wish them the best. If we can manage it, we might as well wish ourselves good possibilities, too. We might do our best to keep at it, to keep applying, announcing our arrivals, creating, crafting and, ahem, writing. It's who we are, whether or not someone reads it, analyzes it, critiques it, displays it, or puts it on the printed page. We are who we are, and the world, in one way or another, and in one time or another, will follow.
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