|Essentially how those afternoons would go.|
It didn't go well so much that, after 7th grade, my parents decided it best to send me to boarding school on a ranch. This ranch happened to be in the geographic middle of Arizona. Metaphorically, this ranch happened to be in the geographic middle of nowhere. Dramatic as it sounds, it sure beat being shot in the shin by my asshole neighbor's pellet gun. I hope he shot his eye out. I will never know, but a girl can dream.
Going to boarding school didn't help the whole "weird" thing, but it sure helped me to come to terms with it. After all, not many normal people spend their time on a ranch-turned- boarding school where cows wander pass classrooms and mountain lion warnings are a thing (we were told to make noise at night when this was in effect. Personally, I didn't do that and opted for the potential mountain lion meeting instead. I never met one, but if I did, I'm sure I would have thought up a very creative name if I had had the time between the meeting and the mauling.) So, with all my weird fellow boarders, we learned to accept that societal isolation and having to move hay bails on weekends if we missed too many breakfasts was normal. I think it was five we were allowed to miss. I moved more hay bails than I would have liked.
The best thing about this particular school (in my opinion) was all the art we were exposed to. I loved theatre and music and I was always up to something musical or theatrical. It kept me sane(ish) while my parents went through their divorce and each time they waited for the "opportune moment" to tell me when one of my pets had died. Sometimes the "opportune moment" was months after because they "didn't want to ruin my play" or some other reasonable argument. I don't blame them, but I wasn't all too happy about those times. However, I acted like I was okay with it because I was a professional. (No, I wasn't. But I acted like I was.) (No I didn't.)
It was my junior year of high school that I began songwriting. I had been slowly picking up the piano again after quitting lessons when I was little, but that's a story for another day. Actually, it's not that great of a story so I'll squeeze it in now. My pinky finger tends to poke out while playing instead of curling down classily like a proper concert pianists' pinky should, so my teacher scotch-taped it into conformity one day. Always being one to stick it to the man, or rather give up when things got annoying, I quit. It was during this new age of learning that I found writing my own music to be a lot easier than learning someone else's. Also, it kind of smoothed out my overly sarcastic and scattered demeanor and made it seem like an deeply emotional, slightly less scattered demeanor. And least I hope it did. I doubt it did.
Music and acting and other art forms were my shield during these years. Of course, I went to college and they all got pushed aside for more important things like "studying things that will get you a job (but really won't)" and "learning to deal with hangovers", but I always expected they'd come back into play when I got older and had more control of my time. For the record, music did become a big part of my life when I moved to Seattle. In fact, I'd have to say it's the main thing that has defined my time here. But I'm usually the viewer. The reviewer. The listener. I'm seldom the maker anymore. In fact, I'm seldom the maker of anything. Except rice and pasta. I'm very often the maker of rice and pasta. Unfortunately, that doesn't really nurture my creative side except when I can't open the jar of pasta sauce. Then I get creative. But not that creative. I usually just hit the bottom a few times to alleviate the pressure and then the top comes off easily on the next go. That's not very creative at all. That's just science.
I could feel myself getting stale at this lack of making. Like bread. Stale like a loaf of bread that's sat on the shelf too long and because of this has lost moisture and began taking on the symptoms of having gone... stale. It's not moldy quite yet, but leave it a few more days and it'll get there. That's the feeling I was getting. I came up with a word for it: Stalure*. It's then that I remembered Fenny, the most supportive, optimistic, imaginary fox who may have had a name lacking creativity, but he also had a heart lacking doubt. Fenny wouldn't like that I was feeling this way. He also probably wouldn't like me being condemned to a mental hospital, so we're gonna say that Fenny is actually a metaphor for my hopes and dreams and perhaps my quarter-life crisis. But, I digress. Life is fun, exciting, and vibrant and if you're stuck in a situation that doesn't allow you to see that, what's the point in staying? I've been trying to stick to the norms for so long it's sucking me dry, and maybe it's time to acknowledge again that, yeah, I'm "weird" (whatever that means), and maybe I should approach the world as such.
So, basically, this was a long winded way of saying I'm gonna quit my job and figure out something else to do. Possibly another job. Also, I'm revamping my blog. Both exciting things.
*Stalure n. 1. The emotion felt when, whether due to circumstance or because you're a pansy, you find yourself too comfortable in a less-than-desirable situation and stay despite that fact, letting yourself down for the mere sake of being mildly to moderately comfortable. As in "I felt a sense of stalure as I went into my third year at my brain-dead, dead-end job." 2. A person feeling this emotion. As in "You're such a stalure, ya pansy!"