Saturday, 04 July 2009

• it is personal

  Some Xangans announce when they are taking a blogging break or leaving altogether. It has not escaped my attention that many fail to follow through. Some return to compulsion without comment within mere hours.

  I, on the other hand, make no such announcements. I just stop, not knowing when or if I will return. Even now I have no idea what I will do with this Xanga I have begun. It is really so utterly unimportant.

  My inbox remains empty. I have accumulated a single comment in all my days absent. No chat prompts. Xanga rockets along without any help from me as well it should. Who am I, after all, that you should give a shit about me? Your indifference has only served to agitate my already considerable insecurities, leaving me unable to decide whether Xanga is a haven of self-expression or just another group I will never belong to.

  I suppose if there was among you any reaction at all to my absence, it was a sigh of relief – sort of like when Michael Jackson died only infinitely less.

  Infinitely. Less.

  I have had so much I wanted to tell you, my readers who care not at all, in the days I have been missing. I want to explain everything. To be understood. Cared about.

  Really this, the whole thing from my appearance on Xanga to the subjects I write about to the ebbs and flows of my SNS activities, all of it relates directly to the sorry state of my employment and the torturous erosion of yet another failing relationship.

  For example, last month saw a marked increase in my Xangactivities. This corresponded to my wife's month-long trip to her home country near the equator. In anticipation of her imminent, dreaded return, I resumed my endless, thankless, hopeless search for employment better suited to my talents, skills, college degree (such at it is), professional experience and personal aspirations – understanding that my failure to do so will mean yet another broken family (the third). It is this disheartening shift in priorities that has displaced the time I formerly spent on Xanga.

  Looking for work is a full-time job. No time for fucking around on the internet. Even if it is therapeutic. I mean, my shoulders are knotted up like a banzai tree but I don't have the luxury of enlisting a CMT's services, why should my heart fare better?

  It has been made clear to me that a man who can't pay for stuff does not deserve happiness. Lesson learned.

  Some of you may recall that I was, indeed, a professional writer and graphic designer with salary and benefits and good, honest co-workers and bosses in an organization whose sole purpose was to help the most desperate people in our community. I was a rock star there and I held that position for exactly three years, until it seemed like the business I started with my wife was going to take off. That was a huge mistake – a reasonable decision, perhaps, but ultimately a fatal error.

  I have been looking for work for over three years, since I realized that my professional relationship with my wife was by no means tenable. From rock star to scapegoat I fell.

  I have submitted hundreds of resumes. I have spent weeks, maybe months of waking hours filling out PeopleSoft forms online. I lost count of the number of interviews I've been in over the last year or so, but I have been to over a half-dozen second interviews and two third-round interviews. I have a file for rejection letters, which I don't want to keep but I'm afraid I may have to produce one day in court for some despicable reason or another.

  So when my wife said again today I need to "move my ass" and get a better job, I wrote this blog.

  I hope you enjoyed this 4th of July message as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  db

  UPDATE
  How truly regrettable to express some level of intimate distress only to be harangued by one of Xanga's most consistent bothers. She was tolerable before – before, even when she advised me how I ought to deal with trolls. I mean, at least she did come around and read and comment. Now that's probably one less among a very small group.
  
  Some Xanga readers may not have passed the third grade level of reading comprehension, and others may simply be too hurried to pay proper attention. I realize this. My blog is not for these: go read the theologianscafe or whatever, go look at pictures and watch videos. However, in case you mis-read my entry above and followed the errant thread below, you might think indeed I am lamenting and complaining about Xangans and/or my inability to "fit in." For those who are not indifferent I offer this brief apologetic:

  I am thankful for every single reader, more thankful for comments and ecstatic over recs. When I say I hate your dog, if you don't have a dog then clearly I don't mean you. It follows then if I say "you" are indifferent or don't read, but you do care and you do read, then I am not writing about you. When I write "you," just imagine that I am standing in the middle of a crowded street hollering into a bullhorn.

  I know I led off with that stuff, but please try to keep up. This entry was about my career conundrum and an extremely difficult domestic dynamic. As for my wife, whom I do love in spite of her frequent lack of concern for my increasingly fragile emotional state, I later pleaded with her to please say something nice. It took an effort and I cried again. Later though, she laid her arm softly upon mine as we drifted into sleep, watching a documentary about death.

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