A few days ago I finally got my résumé fixed up and now I'm formulating a Demonstration English Lesson. (I answered the ad in The Coast for English teachers; it was placed by a Japanese agency.) Sure, I've done this a hundred times already, but now it'll be under pressure. I've rarely been so scared in my life. Sitting here right now I'm convinced that I'll hate teaching (both conventional and EFL); sure, I was all cheery and optimistic when I was writing my application essay, but now that it's put-up-or-shut-up time, I feel like sinking back into the hole* I came from. What's wrong with me? Why am I so depressed (again!?)? People like me shouldn't be doing things like this. We're not mentally fit.
* - In my case, a cliffside hospital that's now a retirement home.
I can't think my way out of a cardboard box. Dave's ESL cafe is littered with stories and anecdotes and tips from enthusiastic, youthful, passionate and energetic people. You can see how I don't think I fit in. Tonight I feel like I'm an alien about to pretend to be human for a day. I don't have any energy at all. All my smiles are false.
It'll get better. I should stress that I don't intend to travel again so soon. I know that running away from my problems doesn't work. It's too easy to zip off to a foreign country and pretend to have a life, but your old existence will be waiting for you when you get home, in all its former ignobility. I don't want to go anywhere outside Canada until at least September. In the meantime, I saw a job posting for a library clerk, and I'm going to apply for it. (I almost didn't want to tell you that. Why? Because you're no doubt asking, "Why aren't you applying for a fast food job or to the call centre?" and the truth is I have no palatable answer for you.)
Failure is knocking at my door, and I'm afraid to answer, but in my lack of answer I am effectively acknowledging Her call nonetheless.
* * *
A week or so ago I was out on a shoot with Mike Fox. We were filming Entherance Online, which is basically a more human and character-driven piece than the one I was supposed to be working on while I was in Alberta and Poland and Ukraine. I sent him what I had, but we were going in two different directions, so it's unlikely that any of my work will be incorporated into the finished product, but on the plus side I'll get a story credit and a shot at appearing on IMDB again. ("Mr. Matheson? Why are you on IMDB?" "Oh, Johnny, that was back when I had dreams and thought I was smart. ... ... Excuse me a moment.")
Actually, I had a lot of fun at the shoot. This is going to be a pretty good movie - at least as good as The Living Impaired, and possibly better. I think it'll be a sleeper hit - in the sense of people gradually waking up to some unknown movie being good rather than the sense of people falling asleep in the theatres.
I told you that story to tell you this one. My Mom still has her Christmas lights out, and often on. Mike noticed this when he pulled into my driveway. The other occupants of the car were likewise impressed by the still-present boughs and festive ribbons.
"The question is," Mike posited, "are they out late, or are they out early?"
I just about died laughing. We'd had a little stuff before getting underway, and I could barely sound out, "My Mom had them out for me... she was saving Christmas until I got home... but that was a month ago!"
A few other comments were exchanged as I almost asphyxiated in the back seat of the car. Mike and his friends thought I should ask Mom for some turkey. And...
"Tell your Mom to bring us a figgy pudding!"
* * *
There's not much else to say about that New York trip. But then again, I haven't tried. Okay, how about this: I will do SOMETHING to document it, one way or the other, by the end of this coming weekend. Even with these coming interviews and whatnot. It's actually easier to get things done when you have a bunch of things to do. It forces you to budget your time properly. I'm the sort of person who could be locked inside a room with pen and paper for a thousand years and be released carrying about ten pages hastily scrawled in the last six hours I was there. It's tough being a notwriter.