One of Many Futures

Irony. Such a postmodern concept, to imbue one's work with ironic, wry critical commentary. It's sort of a tired thing nowadays, yet I feel that artists of my generation can't help themselves. It is an especially tiresome thing, for me to recognize the irony in my own life. Such a sad, sad thing to behold.

For example... When I lived in Iowa, I felt trapped by the smallness of it all. I felt like there was a quality of life I wanted for myself that wasn't available to me there. I needed more commotion in my life. To have access to multiple venues providing "good" visual art (whatever that may mean). In my mind, I needed more theater and performance ("good" of course), more non-profit artist run spaces, bars with bartenders that knew how to make a drink (I'd given my world for a proper Manhattan). A simple coffee shop with good coffee. And my god, what does a girl gotta do for a taco truck around here! More than anything, I suppose I wanted something to do to fill my time. I was restless and cooped up in a too big house surrounded by cornfields for miles. I didn't realize at the time, that my body was going through some major physical/emotional/mental changes, as my estrogen levels were slowly being depleted (that will be an entirely new post). I just knew that the following event triggered my obsessive need/desire to escape Iowa and move to Los Angeles. I worked at Grinnell College as an Art Technician for about 15 hours a week, which left me plenty of time to sit alone at home. Ideally I'd be making art, but have been at an impasse for some time. There were stretches of time where I would not even get out of my bath robe for days. But this one morning, I was feeling chipper. Perhaps it was a good song on the radio. I don't know. I just knew I was getting out of the house today to run an errand. So I find a cute outfit that I hadn't worn in a while. Nice shoes with heels that aren't too high. And make-up. Not too heavy, it was daytime after all, but I looked good. Spritz of perfume and earrings and I was ready to go. It wasn't until I was pushing the shopping cart down the kitchen accessories aisle that it dawned on me. I spent all morning getting gussied up to shop at Wal-Mart. Fucking Wal-Mart. I started crying right there in the middle of the store. The highlight of my day was Wal-Mart!? And I hate Wal-Mart (again, entirely different post). But somehow, it became the thing I got dolled up for. And the reason I had to leave Iowa (at that moment, at least). But where is the irony in this story Donna? Let me tell you. I have lived in Los Angeles for almost 10 months. I have access to "good" art, theater, coffee shops, bars, taco trucks. It is all around me, I can hear it out my window calling to me. And yet... And yet I stay cooped up in my too small studio apartment. I am either afraid of losing my street parking space or too poor to afford a good Manhattan cocktail. I still spend days in my bath robe, if I am not working. And for a while, my weekly visit to the chiropractor became the thing I got gussied up for. I've lost something, some part of myself these past several years and the thing I have in its place is sheer, utter fear. I am afraid of everything. But most of all, I think I am afraid of what my future holds if I remain on this course. I see that future occasionally walking the halls of my apartment building. In the shape of a man who lives on the same floor.

There are two days a week that I have to move my vehicle for a period of time for street sweeping. One day, I noticed this gentleman moving his car from one side of the street to the other. He has an older red mercedes, and was meticulous about parking it right up to the curb. I watched from my car as it took him nearly 15 minutes to park it just so. He would hop out of the car, look at the curb, hop back in and make adjustments. And they were minor. Not even inches, but he finally got it in the position he wanted. I noticed him more and more throughout my time in the apartment complex and realized that he lived in the same building and on the same floor. He is a handsome gentleman, reminiscent of a well kept grandfather you would see in older movies. There is an emigrant history you can read on his face, Greek perhaps. Hair that may be a tad too colored to keep away the grays and just pushing combover stage. And he is always immaculately dressed. I have never seen him without a button down jacket with black trousers and always wearing an ascot. He wears this to the grocery store. He wears this to move his car. He wears this to check his mail. And that's when I noticed a pattern. The timeliness of his actions. Mail is checked precisely the moment the postmaster has delivered it. The car is moved from one side of the street to the other the moment the three hours has expired. Habitually. And I understood. He is a lonely man. One that still has pride in his appearance, but has little more to do with his time than wait. Wait for some ritualistic aspect of life to occur so he has a purpose. So he can check his mail, or move his car. So he can get gussied up to shop at Ralphs for his weekly groceries. He is me. A reflection of me in years to come. Prideful, lonely, and without purpose, excepting for the mailman. This is what I fear. More I fear that my inaction to take control of my life will allow myself to become complacent in living an unfulfilled existence. That my recent fear of every single thing will destroy me. That I will not be strong enough to save myself, and I will be too far gone in gussing myself up for the mundane minutiae of life, that I miss out on it all together.