in case of emergency, break glass

I don’t know if I feel liberated, or stupid. I sat through an all day insurance class today, at the end of which I was likely going to pass a test that would secure the third of five passing scores to complete my CISR designation. Which only means I’ve been appointed a Certified Insurance Service Representative, which in the end as far as education is concerned means next to nothing, except on paper. And I thought, I’ve got my class credits, and that’s really all I need to maintain my insurance license for another three years.

 

I had planned also to go to a wake tonight for a fellow alumni of the high school from which I graduated, and at which I only spent two years. But he was a good guy, we have a lot of mutual friends, and he committed suicide. I'm not unfamiliar with this kind of loss, unfortunately. This may seem like a non sequitur, but it's not. Stay with me.

 

So at 3:15 p.m., I thought, “Fuck the CISR designation,” and walked out at the end of the session without taking the stupid test. I think I was right. My current boss could care less about it, and my next boss will hopefully be me. Because I don’t want to end up like all of the middle-aged, feathered hair, office politics savvy, throw your coworkers under the bus to get ahead other CISR designated stick up their but morons also in attendance. That’s not to leave out the 55 plus-ers.  I’m never getting the old lady, easy to maintain, every hair frozen in place to aqua-net perfection, shiny gold watch to match hair-do. Uh uh. Never.

 

I don’t want to sell insurance for the rest of my life. Period. I want a book deal. Because I deserve it. I have things to say. I have experience, and because living is the thing I’m best at. Not surviving. Living. And writing.

 

I’ve been losing an uphill battle out here, at least as far as doing what’s really right for me, as opposed to what’s good for my boss, my friends, my family. All of it. And in the end I’ve been a nervous wreck, which doesn’t look good on me. I need and want to change this, effective 3 p.m. Thursday afternoon.

 

Work – I give it two more years max. I’m going to save money, and either leave here, buy a house of my own, or take a year off and write, write, write. Or all of the above. I’m not made to work at a place like I have been, with people who don’t care about anything important, serving customers who make every mistake they make someone else’s problem, etc. etc. An example: lady calls about her cancelled insurance after failing to pay her monthly bill for three months. I say the company will take a money order and signed “no loss” today to reinstate. Her reply, “I can’t get out of work to pay my insurance....you’re...you’re USELESS!” and promptly hangs up. Which brings me back to suicide. What if I were someone else (someone weaker)? What if I were going through a divorce, and missed my kids, and I were running out of money because gas is $4.07 a gallon? And I think we’re all killing each other to live, and it has to stop. And I can’t tell her this because she’s a sad, compassionless human being. And I think maybe she could be that other person, too.

 

I just wonder why we’re all doing this to each other, and how in the world we can stop.

 

I'd like to think all of my friends are my friends for life. I also know this can never happen. The most important thing of all is that we're here now. Me and you (and everyone we know).

 

creactivity.

I don't have many answers. The answers I do have are shaky, at best. I make room for this. I breathe. 

I'm not sure what to say about creativity that hasn't been said before. You either have it, or you don't. Or maybe you're one of those people that has a button collection. In the end, all of the buttons make up a collage of colors and texture, and while button collecting doesn't seem very creative, it sure is something to look at. So what makes people tick?

That's what I loved about writing for a newspaper. Finding out what makes people tick, and using what makes me tick to write about it. I miss it terribly, but at the same time, I've had this gnawing feeling that tells me I'm on to something else. Maybe something bigger. Like a novel, or a collection of stories, or an illustrated book of poetry. O.K., probably not the poetry thing. I'm just not all that good at it.

So maybe the thing about creativity, is that whatever it is, creative people just need to make things happen. Even if they don't make any money, or if it's harder than spending their time decompressing after they've done their 40 hours already. Even if it means sacrificing family time, or holidays, or having a bigger, cleaner home than your neighbor. Even if it means sacrificing what's left of all of your time.

As for me, I'd skip three meals a week to have a little bit more time to do all of this. If only the "this" would present itself in such a way that the little voice in my head that tells me I'm all washed up shrivels up and dies. I hate that voice.

I have so much more respect for people when they let creativity rule their universe, even when the odds and their day job and the laundry are all stacked up against them. Sometimes I dream about having enough money to forget all about that and reach the point at which I use all of my creativity all of the time. But then, I'm afraid if that happened, I'd forget what makes it so important in the first place.