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Murphys Pt 3

I’ve been looking for jobs all day. Actually I started the day climbing out the window because I didn’t want to see Irma. I think she has been friendlier and everything is fine but I just didn’t want to see her so I climbed out and drove around for a few hours. I went to Mercer Caverns and instead of going in, because I had my dog with me, I wandered around the gift shop looking at geodes. A member of the cavern staff came up to give me pointers on finding a good geode (they are the light ones that actually have anything in them worth slamming them on the ground for) but he dropped one on my toe and I was upset, my foot swelled up from the heat but probably also the geode and I left to figure out my mail situation. It’s complicated but nothing has arrived yet so I was talking to a post office clerk and another female clerk, probably in her fifties and experiencing menopause, chastised me for letting my little dog’s paws walk on the hot cement outside. She didn’t even get right into it, but started with a friendly “Is it hot out?” I was taken aback but ended the conversation with “you’re rude” and when she tried to speak said “no, I don’t want to hear it, you don’t know what you’re talking about” and then I mentally patted myself on the back because I am sick of old people acting like they know what they’re talking about, and just taking it like I’m still in high school. 

 

I’m 31. I’m going to be over the hill in nine years. I’m not going to go from being treated like a careless child to an old lady just like that, I need a few years of individual power and admirable leadership. I came back to the house and was on hold for twenty minutes with another post office clerk. Stupid mail. I don’t even have mail, why does it matter? And then I picked apart my resume for an hour, and made a new one on a free site that was $2.95 to download it with the formatting all fucked up and so I was back to the beginning with my shitty resume that has only half of the customer service jobs I’ve worked over the years. Turns out that doesn’t look good on a resume. 

 

Nobody wants to know that my first job was a clerk in a bookstore, and all the years babysitting, and selling Lladro and Swarovski crystal. No one cares that I worked eleven hours a day to canvas door to door for the environment or that I made sandwiches in a bakery or tutored foreign students at my university. Absolutely nobody wants to hear about performing gait analysis except for maybe the time Danny Glover bought two pairs of vibrams for his size fourteen feet. The years as a cashier and gift shop clerk, and computer salesman would bore everyone, though my stories are endless. Teaching abroad was exotic. That might be the only thing worth keeping on my resume. Creative director would have been good if I had been paid and lasted for more than a month. So here is my haphazard resume. I cut most of these life experiences out. I highlighted my name and added some skills. “Enthusiastic” is a skill, right? I’m more like Eeyore, but no one is going to interview me to find out. 

 

Maybe I’ll just live out the rest of my days on this hilltop, melting in the heat, asking my dad for some extra money, and apologizing for being a loser. Also, I found my cat. She was in the storage house.

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Distractions

I have many things I have neglected explaining lately and I want to but I’m super distracted by the caffeine high from the Espresso Roma on College. And the man that just walked by me with a large mop of pubic hair on his chin. It was long enough to sway precociously in the wind. I had to put my iced americano down and look at the blue sky a moment to cleanse my head and palette.

It has been a whirlwind of a month, or two. It’s streaming together. Have I already said whirlwind? I think I say that to everyone who asks how I’m doing. Martha has been untrackable due apparently to a lost cell phone. Everyone on the farm, if they listen anything to the lying cheat who runs the place, have an idea through false rumor that I had sexual relations with a professor in Spain, which is funny because the craziest I was in Spain was to seduce a high strung Catholic law student Spaniard two years older than me, and go to discotecas and museums together. But when I confronted my dad’s friend, the farm “charity” man, he just blamed a woman who used to live on the farm years ago and, again apparently, has no number or phone or something, so he has no way of contacting the rumor-creator. However, as I am pretty sure I never spent more than half an hour on the farm after my trip to Spain in 2003, until recently of course, than I think this is hogwash, from my innate detective intuition anyway, (based on Sherlock Holmes, a dreamer’s intuition, not to be trusted).

The funny thing about the farm and the mercantile and the New Jersey experience is what people say when I explain it to them (people such as my new roommate in Berkeley, and my mom, and Andy in New York and Jens in Germany)….I forget who I told what, but I try to make it clear that I wanted help to get to New York and quit a damn good art school in Portland to go at the request of my dad’s old friend (they were in the military in Spain together, he introduced my parents). And so I went with him to New York via Guatemala (which is why my cat had to stay in California with a stranger and he never sent her for a month), and yet it was New Jersey and not New York, and the job I had didn’t really exist. I guess a young, struggling organic chinese food company has no need for a creative director, especially one that wants to do more than be bullied by a taoist ex-wallstreet businessman who thinks he knows more about art and design than you because he has been given like a thousand business cards over the span of his career and can tell you what they should look like, and what a chinese-style conformist would wear to a Whole Foods tasting at the New York headquarters…
But all that aside I didn’t expect my dad’s friend to recommend writing an email to the head of the company/ taoist businessman is response to his demanding artistic needs that would immediately get me dismissed as creative director, and I further didn’t expect him to never pay me, to call me self-centered, to throw my dad’s achievements in my face, and to guilt trip me into going to his other failing business in a little town called Angels Camp (yes creepy) in Eastern California that was being ran by emotional retards into oblivion. I had made it clear from the beginning I was not interested in being a member of Buttercup Farms(ok creepy) and that I only was requesting help, only if it was given willingly, to get to the east coast and find a connection with a creative job. That was the only incentive to leave my kick ass, however pretentious and expensive school gig in Portland. And trusting that this day in Guatemala and this stint in New Jersey with Chinese workaholics was leading to something good, and that all of his talk about my parents’ unhappy marriage and negativity was leading to something, I dived into the initial job with only a few nightmares and regrets. I mean i did have a limbo relationship to leave behind in Oregon, and this was half difficult and half exhilarating…complicated.
Anyway, this is probably not making any sense. I should have written more before now but I was worried about the implications. I had to get out of Angels Camp to begin with.
When I was guilt tripped into going there I was asked if I was happy, and I said, no of course not, I didn’t want to be there. I was young, I was finally out of the Oregon limbo and I wanted to find love, find a good job, get on with my life. He said I was unfocused, confused, didn’t know what I wanted.
Really, John? (That’s his name).
I said I love photography and writing. I have been studying them both for years now. I know two places I would love to live, San Francisco/Bay Area or New York. I know two things I would love to find a career in, photography and writing.
So, I’m unfocused? Or I just don’t share your focus. And I’m negative? Because he said in an email titled “Something you need to hear”: “I think all you are going to do in Angels Camp is spread your negativity. I don’t think it is the place for you. It has helped a lot of people and they love it. I think you are way to self centered to get any value out of being there. I am so fed up with your lack of gratitude and self righteousness.” If he is helping someone than that’s great. I know a girl there from Senegal who feels lost and bored and forced into volunteering so a $25 weekly stipened and empty promises to work at a company in New York are really just not fulfilling her dreams. I know a lady who was promised a bakery and has been talking in circles and waiting for a year. I know I personally asked not to go there and was dragged there and then told it wasn’t the place for me which I had already said if I had been listened to…and so “stick with me for a few years and you’ll be a rich woman” is not an incentive for me to scoop ice cream and dust shelves in an old store in a ghost town. I was never raped as a girl, I never had mad sexual relations with a professor, I never felt insecure and lost and unfocused enough to need the provided direction of a spiritual counselor businessman…so Buttercup Farms, so called charity that has yet to help anyone but likes to talk alot and associate itself with real charities like 10,000 Girls….please don’t try to capture me in your web and then call me negative and selfish for having different interests than you. And if I did call you a commune I was just feeling emotional. You can be whatever you want to be, just leave me out of it, all of the christian science bullshit, all of the empty promises, all of the charity associations, and love and smiles talk.
I hope that I can make an honest salary soon, and I hope I can afford to save all of my belongings which are currently trapped on the farm (near Mt Diablo actually)…before someone discovers this off the web waves, and burns it all!

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