Thursday, September 22, 2011

The Ocean Shook, The Sky Went Black.

Barbara Dress front & back. Amazing retro shoes from Anthropologie
Do you ever cry at your desk at work? Do you curse and scowl and throw tantrums? Do you ever find yourself sprawled out amongst the scraps on the workroom floor; fists clenched and questioning your purpose in life, when one of the company cats tries to comfort you by doing a balancing act on your left nipple?  I'm not saying anything like that ever happens around here. All I'm saying is that sometimes one workday can read like the entire Series of Unfortunate Events exploded on top of a bus full of zombies; and then Pandora tosses out a Decemberist song into the mix and the mood goes from tense to dramatic real quick like.  

Why do I do it? Why do WE do it? As artists, as creators, painters, writers, musicians...why do we feel this need to push ourselves and create new things when there is no foreseeable reward? Of course I know there are all sorts of fun internal rewards, blah blah blah, but a super swell sense of accomplishment does not pay the rent. So other than creating my own personal dream wardrobe why do I torture myself by staying in the loathsome and very difficult fashion industry when I don't even know if it's worth it? 

And you know the answer to the 'Why'? The first answer that always pops into my head? It's always the same:


I don't have to tell you that is a bitter pill to swallow; knowing that the only thing you're good at is ripping out the same seam 3 times in row. Cue the Decemberists, this is getting dramatic again. It makes sense though. Since I was 9 years old, never did have a plan B and if I ever had a minor it was in grilled cheese eating making. 

After about 14 minutes the song ends and the floor starts to get really uncomfortable. Climb out of the belly of the whale, brush off the crazy lady threads, breathe and get back to work. It's only noon. Moping is fun but it doesn't solve problems, unless your problems are there aren't enough people moping. (and give me a call maybe I found my plan B) 

Ah, but it's the second answer to the 'Why' that really matters. The answer you get when the tantrums are over, and you're brain is getting it's recommended dose of oxygen again:


Oh yeah. Duh. I knew there had to be a reasonable explanation for this madness. Maybe there ARE other things I am good at. For example, I didn't know I'd make a good gardener until a few months ago, and now look at all these (ok just 3) bell peppers I grew! Hellz yeah!  I might make an excellent detective, lion tamer or archaeologist as well, but I don't really care. Yet. YET. I do this because it's the only thing I really want to do. It is also the only job I've had so far where I can throw myself on the floor and no one calls security. Plus...... no one questions my choice of music here, and I hate to say it, but those other company cats can be real jerks.
Which one is the camera hog?
So that's why I do it. What's your excuse?

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