7-19-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #152 (The Washington Squares - Broaching conflicts as a subject)

Hitherto -- up to now -- I’ve been waxing all positive and glowing about how things were back in the day we were carving our name in the annals of ‘80’s folkrockdom. You see, I’ve always had a difficult time facing conflict, dealing with conflict, writing about conflict. . . though I must admit I have probably created a lot of my own conflicts.

And when in one of “those” moods, I’ve been called a Jack Russell terrier of conflict -- small, loud, and mouthy. When I get mad, get moving!

Truth is, it DOES take two to tangle (I don’t tango) and friction is an essential part of life. Without it, nothing is created. Even babies are created by friction between male & female. . . not to get too deep or literal here. At any rate, try as I have to not be part of the problem, sometimes when I come up with solutions they aren’t always agreeable to others or part of the agenda -- thusly, CONFLICT rears its ugly head, big or little.

Even now, I’m pussyfooting around because I shudder at the feelings that difficulties -- conflicts -- create. I’m conflicted about letting loose and showing my true DARK feelings. . . you might think I’m a beast, a monster, not “nice.”

ENOUGH! Just so you know, I’m very human. I am so emotional I try to go the other way and be logical/stonefaced. Stoic, in fact. It’s self protection.

One night, before the Squares began, at the old Hurrah’s club (or was it the Peppermint Lounge or Danceteria?) I was introduced to Richard, from one of those snotty new wave Brit bands. He called me “Stone faced” -- to my face -- and I was in a really bad mood, so I punched him. I just saw red and lost it.

Not only that, he never punched back, just started yelling or something. I think he was in shock. What an asshole.

I know you could also think that about me, but I am trying not to care. Because I want to write about the upsets, disappointments, and CONFLICTS I felt when I was a Washington Square. All right with that?

Can I get a witness?

5-29-12 Pictures of Tommy - a memoirist’s blog #30

But then, it changed -- and food was most definitely NOT my friend.  Being a pudgy kid, I resolved, as a teenager, to never have that problem, again.  I’d sooner starve than gain back the weight I lost when I was fifteen -- over 40 pounds in six months, it was.  I thought I was doing pretty great.  Sure, I couldn’t focus, couldn’t shake the headaches, needed to sleep a lot.  My stomach hurt, too.  I filled myself with diet sodas (like my favorite, TAB), broths, tomato juices, sauerkraut juice, coffee and tea with skim milk and Sweet ‘n’ Low.  I allowed myself 600 calories a day, if that, and no meat at all.  This was my vegetarian period.  Speaking of which, around this time, I stopped getting my period.

I’d go into Richer’s bakery at the Marathon Parkway service road to the Long Island Expressway with my dad on Sunday mornings, when he’d buy a box of bakery treats for mom, Carrie, and me, I came face to face with the enemy: velvety cheesecakes topped with strawberries, blueberries or cherries; sumptuous Charlotte Russe with the little turbaned tops, maraschino cherry-kissed; German chocolate, glazed bundt, banana-maple walnut cakes; inch-thick black and white butter cookie disks, five inches in diameter; pastel-iced petit-fours, seven-layer Viennese tortes ten inches high, twelve inches across.  Displayed there also, in the bakery case, were blueberry muffins done to a moist, tawny, sugar-dusted magnificence, and one-serving strawberry shortcakes so compelling to the eye that the tastebuds of even the most devoted of aesthetes could but groan with desire.

My favorite treat, though, were the Richer’s bran muffins, baked with molasses and extra amounts of plump black raisins.  They were square in shape, about three inches in diameter.  I allowed myself this treat once a week -- and it substituted as a meal.  These muffins could easily be cut into small, bite-sized pieces and slowly eaten, in solitude.  I’d start by cutting the muffin in half.  Then, I’d make three cuts across the top, and another three cuts the other way so that I’d wind up with 18 delicious little bites of the most decadent bran muffins, ever.  Some Sundays, when I was really hungry, I’d make four intersecting cuts across the top, making me a total of 32 little bites. 

Then I’d chew, slowly, washing it down with a large iced coffee with Cremora and Sweet ‘n’ Low.  I’d read sections of The Sunday New York Times, in my basement room, secretly snacking on my prize -- that amazing molasses raisin bran muffin from Richer’s.  I was leery of anybody watching me eat because I thought they were making fun of me, talking about me. . . eating seemed revolting to me while I actually did revel in the occasional guilty pleasure.

It was easy, weighing 85 pounds, having one’s “cake” and eating it, too. . . if only my damned head didn’t hurt so much!

REPROOF (Sisyphus Shrugged)

I am now convinced that nothing on earth would make me work in Human Resources. This morning, urged by a friend’s former colleague, I phoned the head of HR for a prestigious institution of higher learning. Now, I am not so sure that she wanted to be as cold and brusque and unhelpful as she was – but that, in her position, with everybody looking for jobs, I’m pretty sure that she really HAS to be mean and dissuade people from bugging her and the HR dept.

“—But Mr. so and so thinks that you really ought to talk to me about my credentials and how I could—“

“Well, he hasn’t been in the hiring loop for quite some time. Now everything is done electronically. It’s more efficient that way. You have to apply online—“

In almost a whisper I replied, crushed: “But I’ve applied four times in the past year online—“

“Then you don’t have the qualifications that we’re looking for.” I really don’t get what she’s saying, because I really make sure that I am fully qualified for every single job I apply for, AND I tailor my resume to the job I’m seeking each and every time. Is it that these jobs are being posted just because that’s the law – and they are all promised to an applicant in advance? Is it that the rest of us who are interested and qualified don’t stand any kind of chance? What could it be? I really want to know.

My heart sank and the tears started to burn my eyes. I muttered, “Thank you,” curtly, and hung up. I couldn’t move for a minute. I just stood at the kitchen counter and sobbed. I had very dark thoughts for a while. I picked up Mister Kitten and hugged his warm soft fur, looking into his big, unthinking eyes.

Either I be victim to the callous ways of the hiring pool, or I am going to be the victor. It’s going to take a lot of persistence, cunning, and a whole lot of luck – right place at the right time kind of thing. I’m very sad and overwhelmed at how unwanted I (and many others, my husband Matt included) am in this job market. If they only knew how much we can and do contribute! It’s almost unfathomable.

I just want to cry, privately, sometimes. I don’t want pity, I don’t want to cry on somebody’s shoulder, I just want to cry to heaven – and then create something so awesome and beautiful that the world’s heart skips a beat, just for a second.

So maybe that’s the grand scheme of things. . . inspiration to create while we roll the figurative boulder up the hill, day after day. Sisyphus isn’t just a myth, it’s a state of being for every one of us, the New Reluctant Leisure Class.

God bless us, every one, in our Sisyphean jobsearch labors – and god help those HR trolls!!

10-13-10