Leaving Louisiana in the broad daylight

This morning feels a bit blank right now, getting ready to walk the Greyhounds.  They know my habits as much as I know theirs.  We are a pack.  10,000 people applied for "joblessness benefits" so says the news and it seems like such a disconnected plunk of an idea in a very, very big pond.  For most people rushing off to work this morning, it doesn't even register.  Nothing.  They feel nothing for the rest of us who try to figure out where we belong.

I feel tired today of the drudge, the search, the constant push to innovate in order to sell those qualities that I hold dear within myself, to make a dent in the world, to get an interviewer's attention and to move onward towards the future.  I work on staying positive and directed.  It feels exhausting sometimes. It feels disheartening and at the same time hopeful.  It feels like your mind is split between opposing forces and you are right in the middle.

For me, this is where I am in life.  I yearn to stand inside of the wish that I have to work in a bright, lovely, focused, enervated and positive environment.  I yearn to be of service with a big smile that is genuine and encouraging because I care about you.  It is real for me.  I yearn for the very thing that I cannot make any headway into and how many of us are there out there?  Some of us are hopeless, destitute, dismissed and frantic.  That is not my story today.  For them, I send my compassion and understanding.  I am here, I am here.

Strange morning music plays in my head as the coffee takes effect and I often imagine that some inner D.J. is spinning the tales.  And so, this morning, Emmy Lou Harris is in my head singing about Leaving Louisiana. The dogs and I "suit up" for our creek walk with her words playing behind us in my mind, gleeful, funny and something about "....this is the story about how things go, round and around nobody knows...."

Idealism and The Dancing Carrot

Another cool summer morning and the three Greyhounds and I met all the regulars on our creek walk.  We see the same folks, exchange morning greetings and I get that small town feeling others might be having somewhere out there where people actually care about their neighbors. 

These are my neighbors and I don't know their names or dreams or travails or prejudices.  It is a faux kind of small town feeling.  I began to experience this strange passage as I started walking the dogs since I have no job since October.  A petite woman walking three big Greyhounds is not something that can be overlooked, and so we make an impression.  They do too.  They just don't know it. 

This small town music that plays for me, the idea of belonging and being cared about by those around me, the smell of cool, damp mornings along the creek walk, the man in the suspenders who always has a big smile for me and the desire to matter is ever present.  This feeling is the small flame in a really big torch.  Is it idealistic to think that we matter to others? 

Idealism is something that a store manager in early October, 2010 inferred would be my downfall.  He felt that the employees would disappoint me because I was too idealistic about the store.  I have a very different view of what happened.  Of course I do.  This is, after all, my blog not his.

It seemed from the moment I stepped behind the meat counter, I was destined to fail.  It seemed that the supervisor was determined to make it so.  Who knows what was going on in his human pencil brain.  He barked orders and concealed his intentions behind an aloof, clipped speech manner.  I had never made deli sandwiches and I never will again.  I was astonished at my inability to get beyond handling deli meat even with gloves on my hands.  I changed my gloves repeatedly as I had been trained.  A few others did. Some did not. 

The amount of food and effluvia on the floor behind the counter is enough to make anyone not want a sandwich made for them.  I have never returned to that deli because of what I know is on the floor.  I understand from others who have worked in deli's, that is standard in a deli. And so you can call it idealism if you want to qualify my failure in the deli as my fault alone.  For me, the dream of working as a Produce clerk, the penchant I have for fruits and vegetables as the substance of my vegetarian diet, was juxtaposed with my desire to come to work for a national, health food chain. I compromised my dream because there was no other offer.  I could not get them to consider me for the very position I qualify for stocking produce.  Deli was all they ever offered.

I still have the dream of working in the Produce department of a local store, greeting the same customers who are part of my neighborhood and my community.  It isn't as far fetched as it once seemed to feel that connectedness to others yet it seems to be getting farther and farther away from here.  The idealism of The Dancing Carrot may seem a bit childlike or unforgiving but really, it is about holding true to oneself regardless of the pitfalls and obstacles that employers place before us.  They call the shots to be sure and they get to.  However, no one can sully your dream if you don't let them.  The Dancing Carrot lives.  Long live the The Dancing Carrot.

TwoFace......

Sometimes at the end of the day, after dinner for all of the sentient beings in our house, I do some tallying of the day's job prospectives.  For many of us, this is the way our days fade into night.  For me, the sunset, lately so almost Thomas Kincaid, has been clear, faint pastels, even here in my hometown.  We don't have a view, and I can enjoy the sky just the same. 

Sometimes, for weeks on end, there are no jobs to apply for that seem like a remote match at all.  The winter months were like that and it was a very, very difficult time.  I am uncertain if there will be another winter like that.  It is possible.  This week has been bleak as well and yet the sunny skies help a job seeker to keep the faith, have hope, stoke the fires of the heart, turn it over, weather the storm.  You get the idea.  Looking for work and living, still living and thriving as much as one can, has become such a disconnect from others.  The world seems to feel fine about that too.

"Social Media" has only shoved a wedge between us though many folks that I know carry their iPhone's around like some kind of talisman.  Our widgets have given us a false sense of security and filled in the spaces around us where our brethren once stood. It is so much easier to check the eternal box when we don't have to tell someone what we really feel.  For me, this blog is as much about our culture of separation as it is about finding work.

Websites are now used by employers in order to funnel resumes and not-so-politely dismiss the work histories of thousands of humans in our device ruled world. The method used to apply for jobs is almost exclusively through the Internet.  So often, a computer delivers the bad news of not being chosen so that people don't have to do the dirty work.   A job seeker doesn't get a chance to find out why they were not chosen or what skills may be helpful to expand next time. 

In fact, most employers would prefer that a screening company and their computer network,  let you know that they " have reviewed your submission and have decided to continue to pursue other applicants for this position." It makes me want to click my heels three times because this sure isn't anything like Kansas. Be sure to check out my profile on the new anti-social media network, TwoFace.

Static in the frequency of life

Some mornings I awake with static in my thoughts as if my mind were stuck between stations and I hear a vague semblance of sound on each side of my brain.  No, I am not hearing voices. This is the unsettled feeling that comes with not knowing which direction your life is taking.  Truthfully, this is the way life is for us and we have a great illusion that our choices create control of our future.  It is one of the Buddhist teachings, paraphrased here, that this is the great lie.  Life is random enough without our fantasies and yet those dreams, hopes and creative images get us on through the trenches. Sometimes parts of them become the substance of our days.  If so we are the fortunate ones.

And so this morning, having received a call for an interview on Thursday-way out of the blue, and having watched the movie Inside Job last night, and plenty of other interactions with people, questions on how I might improve my resume-this has never ever worked by the way, seeking a fourth volunteer position which seemed like a waste of time, looking for work yesterday and sleeping poorly, well the radio station has static.   This is how it can be.  Fretful, fearful, questioning, sad, hopeful, resigned, meaningful and sometimes angry.  Becoming present includes static and also symphony. 

I have now walked the dogs and watered in the now thriving garden.  I have shifted the cacophony in my head and I am feeling more settled.  The static has subsided and I am moving on into the day of looking for work and doing some more volunteer time out there in the world.  I yearn to make a difference even in a small, steadfast manner.  This is the best I can do right now and I am doing it. This is the journey of changing the frequency of my life.  

Not exactly the New Yorker....

Home now and the girlfriend is tucked in bed for a nap, post op. 

I just checked my email as I go off to the not-so-great Internet highway to look for work.  Two new rejection emails from WF and one for tasks I easily and wholeheartedly perform at the Food Bank.  I did receive a call from them for the second job and the caller asked several questions which I appear not to have answered sufficiently enough to warrant an interview.  In fact, the caller laughed when I said that, at the time, I had applied 76 times. 

What was so funny about that?  Was it that I am so gullible to think that I shall ever have a chance with the sorority?  Was it that anyone that tenacious has got to be really, really stupid?  Ah, she has no clue.  No clue about me.  Actually, an employer that allows for a website that registers multiple applications for which they never respond to that kind of veracity has something missing.  What is that missing thing(s)?  You decide and be sure to let them know next time you spend $45 on a bag of groceries.  Maybe they will laugh.

The Promise of the Day

I am up early today to help my girl get to her medical procedure, and I stepped outside as I always do.  I look toward Annadel where the sun comes up every day.  The birds are all a dither and having  songs and twittering and bird stuff to say.  It is the delicate part of the day where my life holds a promise of things to come.  Right then, Texas was there in my morning.  My family lives in Texas and I miss them every day.  It is very different there, though Austin is a very special place in Texas.  It is hot there right now-over a hundred every day.  I don't know if the sun comes up golden and new and full of promise there and yet my heart is there seeking its home. 

Austin has lots of jobs unlike what seems to be here to greet me on Monday morning.  Maybe I should restate that.  There are jobs here and I do not get responses and/or I do not get the attention I know is true to my character and my values.  I am not valued in the manner to which I know I work.  I am a focused maniac with a task and no employer seems to be moved by my suggestion of that level of enthusiasm.  They want something else and they are keeping it a secret. 

And so today begins, slowly at first, with the horizon beginning to pull back into the cool, clear morning here in Sonoma County and my hometown.  It is going to be an extraordinarily beautiful day and the promise is there, in the wings, waiting for all of us.  Let the day begin anew and may it hold special treats for all of us.

The birth of meaning

Today is my sister's birthday and she is what most people consider a lucky girl.  She flew the not so friendly skies as they became, for over three decades, retiring more than a year ago.  I remember many phone calls as she was in the van to the airport or walking on the jet bridge towards the plane, about to leave the country and so we would check in just in case.  Just in case.  A very frightening thought for me who is still so terrified to fly not to mention the thought of my sister dying at all.

And so as the years today feel like they sped by as I remember her first and last union strike and how proud I was of her walking the picket line.  I remember our discussions later about the "scabs" and how those people walked back onto the planes after betraying their coworkers.  I remember my sister's terrified and distraught phone message on 9/11 as I walked to my cubicle job for the government.  I remember my sister's terror of returning to work after the trauma and deaths of 9/11.  I remember how she tried to cope with the murders of her coworkers.

Most of all I remember how my sister became one of my heroes, attired in the dark blue uniform, flying hither and yon as the culture of our world began to change radically. Passengers became more and more tense and acted out on the flights, privileged, angry and edgy.  The same thing began to happen to me at work, though it took the melting down of financial markets and truckloads upon truckloads of foreclosures to turn the public against my former profession.  Still, the sea of humans on the planet began to gather arms, spew vindictive around them, approach those in helping professions with derision and hostility because they were stressed, disrespected, violated, cheated, slewed, broken and terrified.  They fought back and I just wish it had been fruitful against the corrupt sources who created our demise not the fellow participants.

My sister "retired" and yet I know she would say those were such great years of working and playing. I know that for each of us, working without a net means different things.  For her, there is a great freedom in not putting on that dark blue uniform and enacting the persona of a flight deck member.  She is now walking the world and not constrained to the jet bridge.  For me, there is little freedom in the untethered experience that I am having.  Yet we are both, in our own way, searching for the birth of meaning.  Happy Birthday Sister.