Posts Tagged With: personal

The View From Over Here

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So… around about 1991, I was a professionally miserable student in high school, suffering avidly and expertly through the idiotic rigamarole of the usual vicissitudes of High School Life. I listened to The Smiths, The Cure, Ministry, Social Distortion… and Johnny Cash. I drew pictures. I painted, I wrote terrible long winded stories in fantasy or sci fi. I played role playing games. I lived in my basement. I read books. Basically your usual High School Existence(tm).

And I took an art class.

I was considered ‘talented’ in Art. I could draw pretty well, but it may also have had some effect that i had an ‘artistic temperament’ which meant that, throughout this art class I was mostly unsupervised. This meant that art class was sort of a haven for me. I spent my time making canvases i’d probably never use, pushing ink and paint around on things, and working on the borders for an illuminated page i’d begun working on.

Somewhere within my time in this art class i meant a friend. The first openly gay person I had ever met. Oh sure, there were rumors about this or that person. Rumors that eventually turned out to be true. Such rumors were always ALWAYS delivered with a sort of vicious derision that only High School students and certain political candidates can muster. Some of those folks about whom those rumors floated were accepted amongst tightly knit cliques who accepted them for who they were, but outside those groups there was a free for all. It was the wild west.

Anyway. I’m laboring the point. The fact is that my friend brought a LOT of life into my world. We’d sit around art class with giant books of Monet or Van Gogh, flipping pages and just ogling the pages. She had this gorgeous style. I can’t even describe it. But I seriously wish I had some of her paintings now. They were awesome. Full of color and light, with these intricate designs that i was envious of and am still inspired by to this day. You have no idea how much I STILL want some of that art.

I should say, we weren’t close friends. She was a year ahead of me in school, and aside from that one class, we didn’t hang out much outside of it. I was, and still am, a nerd and a seriously introverted one at that. And she was a bit more social. But I can say that she opened my eyes and i absolutely adored her. And do still, to this day.

Fact is, life was not terribly easy for her. She got a lot of hate. As in notes stuffed into her locker threatening her life. Over the course of the year I could see it weighing on her and on more than one occasion I had to threaten serious bodily harm to those who were tormenting her (when I found out who they were). Unfortunately, there were too many and she ended up leaving school. I can’t imagine, now, just what sort of crap she was enduring that I never saw. But the fact was that it pissed me off to no end. I’m not the fighting sort – as you might have noticed from the opening paragraph – but I would have gleefully battled the entire school, including every football player, wrestler, etc.) for the chance to give her the space to make her absolutely precious (to me) art.

So that’s where it started.

Two years later or so and i’m hanging out during a break in my acting class in college and another friend asks me casually what I’m doing this weekend. She was a bit of a firebrand – a ruthless feminist with molten lava for blood. Intense and awesome. Again, we weren’t great friends. Smoke buddies basically. We didn’t hang out, we didn’t see each other at parties (as I would have had to actually be invited and the idea of a college party at the time was kind of EEEEEK). Anyway. I had no plans that weekend. I figured I’d be doing what I usually did – studying, trying not to be annoyed by the hoedown in the hallway of my dorm, evading the pools of vomit that suddenly appeared in the hallways over the weekend. And I said as much. No plans.

She said she and a few other people were heading to DC for the gay rights march. Of course, I had no intention of going. I mean… drive from Stevens Point, Wisconsin to Washington DC for a weekend? That’s crazyness. And I was anything but crazy. Cautious would be more apt a term. And I persisted in this until thursday night, about 20 minutes before the caravan was to leave when I suddenly found myself standing in the parking lot and much to my surprise, loading myself into a car packed to the gills with people.

That march was… well… life changing. From the moment we got there, and the hostile reaction we received from the Dorm where we were being put up in a study lounge, to the march itself, it was an assault on everything I knew and thought about the world. From hanging out in Dupont Circle and first hearing the term ‘asexual’ – which, i thought at the time, was a sort of a joke. There was a spirit of community. There was this intense vibrancy of life. There were the speeches and I remember there was a sense of hope. Bill Clinton had just been elected president and folks had a feeling, I guess, that it would be different this time. That it would be better.

And it was. A little. But the thing is, a little better – at that time – was a lot. It was a celebration. The AIDS epidemic that had run rampant over the community seemed to be winding down. People had heard of cocktails of drugs that didn’t cure it, but gave you a chance to live longer. You could see… well… joy. And hope. And it reminded me of that gift my friend in art class had given me. There was color everywhere. And there was remembrance. And it was absolutely beautiful. I think, for the first time, I experienced the world I wanted to live in.

I don’t know. Maybe it was all an illusion. Maybe it was situational. I think about it now, all of those people living their utmost in those short days and then putting it away and going to jobs that didn’t accept them, or back to families who hated them. But that’s kind of what those moments are for, isn’t it? To show you the world as you want it to be. And, my God, did I want to be a part of that world.

I got a little closer to the folks on that trip after that. Trevor with his brilliant flamboyance. Mike ‘the gay dad’. I was still very much an introvert, but it somehow opened a little crack in the walls that I’d built. And I let a little more light inside after that. I auditioned for, and got, a part in a play. I smoked a little weed. I went to a few parties and as quiet and closed off as i was, I considered them friends. I allowed myself to experience things: openly, clearly, with more curiosity than judgement.

Anyway… this blog is about my experiences in Norway. So here I am at Pride in Oslo. And let me tell you something. If you haven’t been to Pride in Oslo you need to go. It’s the second largest official parade in the city just behind their national day, Syttende Mai. And it’s a beautiful celebration of color and beauty and being and I absolutely love it. There is still, sort of, that feeling of ‘not quite there yet’ but there is also a feeling of beaming… well… pride. There is a feeling of accomplishment. That, somehow – at least here – LGBTQ have created something special – a space where they can actually be themselves freely and openly.

And it’s not simply for a weekend or a day. It’s 365 days a year. At least here in the city. I have it on reliable authority that the same does not apply further out in the country and that many of the small towns have about as enlightened a view of gay rights as my own small town did back in 1991. But this is Oslo. And it’s here. You see as many people lining the streets cheering the parade as are those who are actually in it. Here you see the chief of police – a lesbian – marching in the parade alongside those that the police actually DO protect. You see trade unions, firemen, the army, the navy, the entire government represented proudly alongside their LGBTQ countrymen. There is this feeling of solidarity that is breathtaking and wonderful.

Let’s put it this way, they rename a park near the palace Pride Park during the festival. In it you can find all the major political organizations represented. Including Norway’s FRP – who are hardly recognized as friends of Gay Rights. We walked through the park, bought a baked potato (it may sound weird. It sounded weird to me, but it was freaking amazing – a baked potato slathered with corn, thousand island dressing, bacon and cheese. I’d never had a baked potato so amazing in my life). We bought a few other little things – an Ace flag, the usual rainbow stuff, etc. And as i turn to get to the exit so we can watch the march my wife says ‘Oh look. There’s the Prime Minister.’

I turned. And sure enough… the Prime Minister of Norway is walking through Pride Park with a small entourage.

LGBTQ rights are enshrined here. You see representation on the posters on city buses and trams. The pride flag waves during the pride festival from every tram you ride on. It’s flying from flags on many of the major streets. Discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation is literally against the law. And though Pride might be a little ‘extra’, you get the feeling that the people you see marching are not so different from the people who work their 9-5. When they go home after the celebration, there might not be so much of a disconnect, that their lives can be as full and open and as beautiful as they want to be. And that’s a great thing. I find myself wishing i could drag all of my LGBTQ friends here to see it. Hell… all of my friends – just to see what kind of world this world CAN be.

After we managed to penguin walk our way through the crowds by the march, we stopped by our favorite bar, Politikern and had a few outside in the sun. Because, of course we did. This is Norway. It is summer. And outside drinking is a national past time. In the square in front of us was the national headquarters of Arbeiderpartiet – the workers party as well as an LGBTQ art gallery. I should have gone in to see if my friends artwork was there. It should have been. But I didn’t. We were both tired. Exhausted actually. But as we left several different groups of people asked us what our flag was for and I remembered how many questions I asked of people in DC. We carried the Ace flag. Apparently it’s not quite as well known. But in answering the question we continued in the process. And that’s such a beautiful thing. Broadening understanding. Answering a simple question. Sharing.

This is the world I want to live in.

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New Country, Who Dis?

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It’s been over a week. I have been busy. Well… to be a little more honest, i have been VERY busy with being absolutely not busy at all. The wifey and i have made a bit of a pact that we shall be deliberately doing as little as possible for the first week here. Mainly so we can shuck off the jet lag.

Which isn’t working by the way. So let’s just start there shall we?

You get on the plane at 7PM in Chicago. Which, by the way, is a fricking zoo. It’s an apocalyptic zoo. Sort of like walking into a music festival where you hate all the musicians playing…. and everyone is a vampire in a bad mood. Or a Werewolf with mange. In our case, we sort of bustled to the nearest bar, had a seat and had a few. This is part of my flying routine. Generally, i am so absolutely stressed by travel (and particularly leaving the comfort of my home Butt Groove) that pounding back two (no more than two) vodka cranberries before a flight helps to steady the nerves. Why no more than two? Because you might get a wee bit tipsy and you don’t want to give them any excuse not to let you on the plane.

I was excited by the prospect of an open lane in my seats on the plane. It has happened on this trip before – particularly if your seat is towards the back of the plane. I ALWAYS take the back of the plane. It might be a bit smellier, the seats are tiny, BUT the further back you are, the closer you are to the bathroom and the less fear you have of getting locked into your seat when the service carts start moving. AND the more likely it will be that there may be open, unclaimed seats. I have personally witnessed one intrepid traveller on a larger flight sprawl out in the center aisle seats. I have also had a row to myself once. If you haven’t travelled much, know this – that having a row to yourself is absolute bliss.

Unlike this flight.

Remember the mangy werewolves i mentioned? Well… one ended up sitting right next to me. Here i thought i hit the jackpot and had the row to myself again but at the last minute it filled up – one incel writer type in a tweed jacket that he did not take off despite the canned and sweltering air and another… well… mangy werewolf is the best description. There was just something… off… about that guy: shaved head, sketchy darting eyes, blotchy. He was the fellow right next to me. He climbed into his seat which is basically the reverse of being born, sat down and sacked out before the plane even left the earth and stayed that way until it touched down.

Now you might say ‘oh gee, you lucked out’. Which is not the case. Because, as it happens, folks who sack out that hard and that consistently on an international flight are aberrations from the depths of hell. And they tend to flop. And flail. And the fellow did both. Often. Right on top of me. I’m in coach, of course, so there is precious little space to begin with but having a 250 lb man snooze closer and closer eats up what little space you have rather quickly and i couldn’t exactly create more without actually opening the window.

Anyway… Back to the jet lag.

The thing of it is, you’re not just flying east by seven hours. You’re also flying north. This makes a huge difference. While Oslo is not the land of the midnight sun, it’s close enough that you can smell it. So not only is your body off by seven hours when you land, but you’ve also just experienced the shortest night ever AND the light, when you land, is all sorts of wrong. We landed in Reykjavik at 7 am. It felt like 3 PM. And that displacement would only get more pronounced the further west we travelled.

Unlike, Chicago O’Hare, Gardermoen Airport in Oslo is a paragon of grace and beauty. They have an actual Munch painting right there in the long, wide, parquetted concourse. The space inside the terminal is nothing short of glorious. Angelic. I swear, if it weren’t for the general subdued noise echoing off of natural wood interiors, you might hear a choir of angels sing or Handels Messiah playing as you make your way to arrivals. It’s literally the prettiest airport i have ever seen in my life, a fact made all the more precious by the fact that it is well run, well organized, and actually makes some sort of rational sense.

Norway is part of the Schengen area – a set of european countries that have abolished the need for passports at entry. This means that once you pass through customs at Keflavik in Iceland, you are done with the customs process. And passing through customs at Iceland is USUALLY a licketty split process. This was the first and only time there was a bit of a wait. It might have had something to do with travelling on a saturday. But either way, there is nothing much to do at Gardermoen except take your leisurely time getting through the gloriousness of the airport -maybe enjoy the view of the distant mountains outside the concourse windows. Then you collect your bags. There is no glowering TSA agent waiting for you to hand in your little slip of paper or check your Fast Pass. There is a door that says ‘nothing to declare’ and that’s it. Go through that door and you’re out. (Unless, of course, you have something to declare.)

By now it is 11 AM. And i am temporally displaced in the extreme. Because the arrivals area of Gardermoen is so well ordered it actually FEELS like a nice quiet sunday morning. I grabbed my bags and headed out to the pick up area which, again, is busier than i have ever seen it. Which is to say it’s 300 times LESS busy than O’Hare on an off day. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Beautiful. Not much to do but take in clean air and watch pigeons and magpies battle each other for scraps of fresh baked bread from the various kiosks in the arrivals area. And smoke. I’m a vaper. So i vape. Ten hours of flying has turned me into a chimney.

Ordinarily, at Gardermoen, you’d simply hang a right through the ‘nothing to declare’ door, head to the Flytoget (Plane Train) kiosk and get a ticket into Oslo. That’s what i did every other time i’ve been through and that’s why Gardermoen is like an airport for silent monks. There is no need for the hustle and bustle of absurdity that is the pick up for every other airport i’ve been to. You simply get your bags, get a ticket, get on the rather sumptuous plane train, and whisk your way quickly to Sentrum. This time, my wife’s parent’s picked us up.

So now i am here. Home. It took me about 48 hours to remember the homeyness of it. I still missed my butt groove. But one walk to the grocery store from our apartment and it was like putting on an old pair of jeans. Lilacs dripping down from fresh green lanes, people meandering along the roadways, the quiet peace of the neighborhood.

Oslo, or at least my current section of it, is what i would have imagined had i had the tools to imagine it. It’s what i would have built if i knew how to build it. It’s quiet, but there is some sort of odd reverence to it’s quietness that doesn’t feel enforced. It’s not… well… demanded… but respected in some way. As though there is an agreement among everyone that this is how it should be – the tiny little lanes, the footpaths that meander into woods, the way the rock of the fjord and mountains jutt through and are worked around. It’s as though elves live here or something – determined to preserve as much of the natural beauty of the place as they can while still building around it. I love the rock protruding from peoples lawns, the miniscule forested areas with their little paths. I love the outside seating areas around every bar or restaurant – the seats covered in sheeps wool, empty wine glasses still sitting on the table.

And despite the undeniable comfort of my relinquished American Butt Groove, there is nothing so wonderful as this place and my home. Even as i write this, my tiny but unbelievably fierce part Norwegian Forest Cat, Spoon is staring at me. It’s cool. It rained this morning. And it’s quiet. I may still have absolutely no idea what time it is, but in this moment i don’t care. It’s enough to be here. To be building a new butt groove. To be home.

There are homes we are born to, and no matter how hard we try we will never fully escape them. That’s what America was built on: memories of homes we left – ethnic festivals, cuisine from the home country. It’s why lutefisk is served in Minnesota. It’s why we have a Polish fest in Milwaukee (and Irish Fest, and Italian Fest). These places are always a part of you and will be forever. Even longer, in fact, than you are part of them yourself. They live on in families, in traditions, in stories and you pass them on generationally. But there are also the homes you build, the ones you find, the ones who creep up on you unexpectedly and maul you with their promise of peace and light and life. Sometimes, you’re lucky enough that you have both and they’re the same place. But sometimes it’s all you can do to drag yourself from one to the other, reluctantly, painfully, inexorably. It’s hard pulling yourself from one to the other – particularly when they’re so far apart – but it’s worth it if you let it. If you learn to leave off the resistance and just love the space you find yourself in.

Home is where you make it. I choose to make it here.

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This Tired, Poor, Huddled Mass is Yeeting…

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Hold on to your hats because this is a big one. I have no idea how to actually tackle a topic as vast as this except to leap straight into it. It will likely be a series. Or something. Cuz there’s a lot to say.

Starting with the basics – A couple of years ago – 2016 to be precise – i met a fine lass online in a group i was adminning. It was a writers group. For writers. And we met and hit it off. That gal lived in Norway. Oslo, specifically, a country and a city that i hadn’t ever really intended to visit. It seemed nice in pictures and stuff but i am a homebody. One of those folks who dreamt listlessly of travel, but subsided within a life that really should NOT have been comfortable, but was. It’s weird how that works. You get used to things not being ideal and the non-ideal becomes the comfortable and then, by some sort of crappy metamorphosis, the ideal.

Well, it took a little pushing, a little prodding, and a little nudging as well as a bank account that was finally amenable and… to make a long story short, i went out to visit this gal in May of 2017 – for my birthday.

The visit was a little more than a week long. I didn’t want to overstay my welcome and i figured that was a good amount of time to see how we clicked without either of us getting too much in each other’s face or anything. We clicked pretty well.

It turns out, really well. On the second to last day before i was supposed to head home to America, she proposed. Yep. SHE did. We both laugh about it now because we’d both tried to mentally prepare ourselves to head off just that sort of silliness. I mean… we might be fiction writers, but that’s one of those things you hear about in romance novels. I think that moment caught us both by surprise. In fact, i know it did. She said it and i accepted it. Just like that. In spite of both of our respective brains stating uncategorically that such a thing could not, should not happen. That it was basically bonkers.

But then again, we’re a little accustomed to bonkers.

The question of WHERE we would then settle was… well… settled almost instantly. Due to medical complications, there was no way i would permit my betrothed to reside in the medical hellscape that is the United States. Even with a decent job and health care, it would be a recipe for bankruptcy. Her care and medication would have us being permanent residents of the poor house unless – by some miracle – we won the lottery or i suddenly became an amazing best selling author (a feat which could only be accomplished by me actually completing any number of the 3 dozen open projects i had working at the time)

This brings us to the REAL point of this blog…

I’m immigrating.

To freaking NORWAY.

Now, i’m sure i will likely use these pages to blather on relentlessly about the wonders of Norway and Oslo specifically. I’ve been there a bunch of times now and i absolutely love it. But there’s more. There is the unusually frought – emotionally – concept of BEING AN IMMIGRANT which provides a unique perspective on that experience that i never thought i would actually have.

See… we’ve now ACTUALLY BEEN MARRIED for a year and a half. We were married in December of 2017. And since that time we’ve managed to be together for a few months here and a month there. Intermittent and sporadic moments of togetherness that are great for the first week or so, but then take on more and more notes of omen as the time grows increasingly short. It’s a crappy way to live – always bordering on the one foot reluctantly out the door, trying to cram as much living into the time we have together and otherwise relying on the capriciousness of an unstable internet service for things like Skype and watching shows together on Rabbit. There’s a seven hour time difference, so one or the other of us is constantly existing on fumes of energy. But we’ve been making it work. Ish. Uncomfortably and with difficulty, but it’s been working.

So i will be filing my paperwork to get a permanent residence visa in a week or two. I will be there, with her, in a few days and right now she’s here in Wisconsin. So that’s good.

But i would be lying if i said it’s all rosy and wonderful. And i know i bounced around this issue a lot over the preceding paragraphs but…

NOTHING ABOUT THIS IS EASY.

Honestly, the easiest shit to deal with is the technical stuff – the Visa and all that. That’s a matter of filling out forms, doing stuff. There’s a list. You check it off. You do your best and get it done like it’s a job. It’s the other stuff. The mental stuff. The ‘HOLY SHIT THIS IS ACTUALLY HAPPENING’ stuff. The uncomfortable recognition that you are leaving the only home you’ve ever known. That you will be thousands of miles from everyone you know. That you are leaving a lifetime of stuff behind. That you – at 45 years old – are leaving a lifetime behind and starting with a very terrifying slate so clean you could mistake it for a plate and eat off of it.

It is fucking terrifying.

So… here, in all its yawning Cthulhu-esque glory, is a categorical list of the utter and complete brain freak out that is currently occuring behind my calm veneer:

  • Jesus Shit Holy Fuck I’m TOTALLY ass broke and can’t afford to do this.
  • I need one pair of jeans and a pair of hiking pants
  • how am i going to get all this shit into my luggage
  • how am i going to afford the metro pass
  • how am i going to find a job
  • where am i going to find a job
  • job
  • job
  • job
  • crap can’t even work for months while my visa is processing
  • job
  • money
  • job
  • money
  • what if they don’t let me in
  • what if they think we’re lying for me to immigrate and don’t believe we’re married
  • How the hell did people do this when the trip took five months by boat
  • How did people do this with only pen and paper as communication tools
  • What’s going to happen to my friends without me
  • What’s going to happen to my family without me
  • Is everyone going to be okay without me
  • Is my leaving the dumbest thing i’ve ever done in my life?
  • Is my leaving the smartest thing i’ve ever done in my life?
  • It feels like the smartest thing.
  • But what about my poor cat? When will i be able to bring her over?
  • Why is my country so stupid as to force people out rather than figure out how to help them live?
  • Why is my country so stupid?
  • Oh crap. Norway. That’s right next to Russia. What if they invade?
  • Why is it so damned hard to learn the language?
  • Will i fit in okay?
  • What if i don’t fit in okay?
  • What if i can’t find friends?
  • Where will i find friends?
  • How do i find friends when i haven’t been very good at it before?
  • You’re 45. People don’t start over at 45. They start planning their own funerals. They slog the rest of their way through a dreary life and then die grateful that it’s over.
  • Is my anxiety going to settle down when you get there?
  • Is my anxiety ever going to settle down?
  • OMG this is so wonderful and i can’t believe i’m starting over at 45!
  • She’s the wonderfullest ever and this is all totally worth it.

This is not a complete list, mind you. At any given moment there are 81 flavors of panic going through my brain and i don’t have to even get on a leaking, sinking life raft and cross an ocean to do it. All i have to do is get on a plane and FOR A CHANGE i will actually be getting on a plane WITH MY WIFE. No more leaving her at the airport – i hope. But that doesn’t mean i’m not in perpetual panic mode.

Immigrating IS NOT FUCKING EASY. And i’m doing it the easiest way possible. And we’re doing it the legal – totally above board – way. But don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. This is not a decision anyone takes lightly. I would like to stay. I would like to stick around my friends, my family, have the life that i thought i would. I would like to build our lives here, together, with my people and everything i’ve always known. And in the days leading up to the grand adventure i find myself staring constantly at the familiar things knowing that it may be a while before i see them again.

No one does this lightly. People don’t leave their home because they are happy. They leave because they must. Because they believe there is something better and they can see glimpses of being happier. And because, regardless of HOW FUCKING HARD IT IS – WHATEVER comes is better than what is.

I’m not crossing a border or an ocean. I’m getting on a plane with the papers necessary to hopefully get me a permanent residence visa. In a few years time, i hope to apply for citizenship. But even so, with all of that, with doing it the ‘right way’ i still know a little – maybe just a tiny little – bit of what those people are going through. I’ve seen it in my own heart and my own head. It’s absolutely terrifying, but somehow the terror of risking is better than the terror of not risking.

And she’s totally worth it.

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Is This Thing On?

Wow. It’s been a minute hasn’t it? Huh… This is a bit like coming back to a home you had to leave quickly. One that has been attacked by ninjas or something. Or like that scene in Godzilla where Ford and his dad come back to the house they evacuated years before. Everything is covered with moss and dust. There’s a tree growing out of my Blog now.

I think i might just leave it there. It adds to the ambience.

So. What’s new folks? Anybody out there?

Right. Just me. Talking primarily to myself as usual.

So. I got married. That’s new since the last time. She’s wonderful and I love her dearly. And pretty soon here I will be moving to be with her. And it’s KINDA a big move. I don’t want to say too much right now because it will require a lot of paperwork and many other things including a huge psychological upheaval. But i’m excited. Really excited.

Ummm… I’m still working on pumping out more fiction. So there’s that. But it’s been slow going. I’ve gone back to the basics. I don’t know if i mentioned it here or not, but when i wrote the first four Meg Brown stories, they were all jotted down in a little moleskine notebook by hand, in pen. Seeing as i have been having a lot of trouble getting things moving with the writing in a more traditional sense, i have decided to go back to writing things in pen. Somewhere in the archives you may see a visual representation of exactly what i mean. Maybe i will post another pic of what it currently means.

For any of you who are interested (all… umm… one of you anyway) i am using a nice midnight blue Leuchiturm 1917 dotted journal and a Pilot Metropolitan Fine tip Fountain pen. It really seems to do the work, though keeping my handwriting legible is a bit of a struggle so i have adopted the additional technique of using dip pen Calligraphy as a meditative aid before setting into writing.

I know. I’m a total nerd. But i’m quite okay with that.

In any case, i found a podcast with Neil Gaiman who mentioned writing longhand and i remembered that connection between yourself, the silence, the pen, the paper. And off to the races i went.

You can find a link to the podcast in question here: https://tim.blog/2019/03/28/neil-gaiman/ I hope it works.

And i am learning Norwegian. I love the language. It’s like what would happen if German and Hobbit had a linguistic baby. It bubbles. If you haven’t heard a native Norwegian speak, get yourself on a plane and go immediately to Oslo.

Oh yeah… and then there is the Bullet Journal. My wifey – who i think i mentioned is the awesomest – got me into Bullet Journalling and I absolutely love it. It is, again, that connection between the pen and the paper, organizing your thoughts like you’re carefully cooking a meal. And working… well… slow. When you’re typing stuff you can throw in everything but the kitchen sink toting elephant and half the time you aren’t even aware. Hand cramping and watching letters form on a page makes you think slower, more deliberately and it’s fantastic though i often admit to horrible episodes of rambling and repetition which annoys me to know end when i finally discover it ages later.

What does this all mean? Well… quite simply that i will have a LOT more things to talk about in the future. I hope. Provided i actually keep up with it this time. But don’t hold your breath on that score. I kind of like disappearing for a while to come back and find out what’s changed in the meantime. Usually the thing that’s changed the most is me. And that’s pretty nice to find out too.

Well, that’s all for now. Hope you like it and can stay tuned. There may be more to come.

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The Quest for Unemployment

I am probably not in the proper mindset to be writing a blog on the art of being unemployed. But then again, perhaps the rage, frustration, and nearly comical quixotic-ness of the whole thing is exactly what i should be writing about. I don’t know. Let’s just say when i get into a furious snit over the mind-boggling stupidity of it all i just have to take a few moments and write my way through it before things start getting broken or becoming airborne and seeing as it is physically impossible to launch websites or job postings from a catapult while tied to a Buick, it might be a good idea to at least TRY to write through it.

So as you probably have surmised from many of my other scribblings, i fancy myself a fairly capable and talented writer. For reasons that cannot be adequately explained in a small amount of time, i have never been able to pursue a career in following my talent on a professional level at the expense of the pitiful amount of shrapnel i have been able to glean from working at my ‘real’ job. It’s absurd really, but the fact of the matter is that the eleven dollars an hour that i have choked down like regurgitated offerings from the proffered beaks of my employers has been a necessity because the alternative is an unpaid internship somewhere – which i can’t afford.

Well, as so often happens in my unchosen line of work, i am once again unemployed. For fear of incriminating myself i will not relay what employment i did not chose to toil in for 12 years – as it seems these are the only jobs i am even remotely qualified for and i would actually like to be employed again.

But that brings me to my point. I have just found a job posting that i would like to apply for. So i started doing just that. It’s for a copywriting job in Redwood City working for EA Games. This sounds absolutely perfect even though i don’t know much about copywriting. I mean, i’m a pretty talented writer as you can obviously see, i enjoy playing video games, i would really like a discount on the upcoming Mass Effect 3, i have interest, drive, talent, untapped skill, and generally a positive outlook on things.

But here’s the problem. For almost every job you CAN apply for out there there is a different method of applying for it and each method of applying for it is designed by evil goblins from outer space whose only qualification is to cause the greatest amount of psychological damage to any soul who dares apply. The website which i was supposed to go through to apply for this rare gem of a job is a huge waste of space (and if you’re wondering so you can avoid it like the brain plague that it is it’s caljobs.com – the website that is supposed to help provide jobs to californians, which i am not one but in this day and age and given the drain of Wisconsin’s jobs it helps to cast a very, very wide net.) It doesn’t work. You cannot upload a resume much less look for the particular position that was advertised. They require you to fill out ‘their’ resume which barely qualifies as a Burger King application, and then their forms and fields allow so little information that you are forced to abbreviate whatever experience you might have as if you are writing a tweet.

This is not the only problem with job searching. Every job site, job board, posting, what have you generally has their own particularly sadistic method of applying which will eat your time and your mind for absolutely no result. On average you will revise and rewrite your resume for about two to three hours EVERY time you find a posting that is suitable at which point you will rapidly become aware that the courtesy expected is entirely on your side. The prospective employer is in no way obligated to give you even the meager hope of a cursory response to your submission.

And finally there is the tiresome issue of job specificity. As an example i will happily hyperbolically concoct a scenario of a job posting:

Pooptech Publications Inc. is looking for an experienced wordsmith with 2-4 years of experience in articles relating to animal fecal matter. Please provide samples of your writing. We are interested in Bovine Fecal Matter, and Equine Fecal Matter specifically, though Canine and Porcine is also acceptable.

If you do not have 2-4 years of experience writing quality award winning articles about Bovine Fecal Matter please do not apply.

Do not contact, call, write, or submit an application on this site. Go to etc. etc. etc. and fill out our thirty page, proprietary application, upload twelve writing samples, submit yourself to a drug test, take our psychological battery questionnaire and then wait for the rest of forever for us to possibly, maybe, someday, contact you if and when we feel like it.

If we contact you it in no way obligates us to speak with you, nor does it preclude the possibility of an interview.

Now, of course this is fantasy but it isn’t all that far off. Go look. I’ll wait. Better yet, see if you can withstand three hours of job searching, including sending out a resume.

In short. If you are wondering why we have so many employment issues, or unemployment issues in this country it’s simple. We don’t know how to adequately use the people we have, we don’t know how to find the people we need, and the people who are capable for our employment can’t find us. That and the economy is a nonsensical train-wreck run by bumbling, idiot greed, infused hobgoblins who would much prefer finding intelligent job candidates in far off lands so that they can regurgitate morsels of western wealth into their beaks while ensuring that their bellies remain full on the offal of the rotting carcass of the middle class.

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