I haven't been writing any real soul-searching stuff here lately, or anywhere, since this is the only place I write right now. I guess 'cause I've been doing all my writing in my head lately, while I clean stalls. Then when I'm done, all those thoughts or problems or ideas have been exorcised, and they are free to go, leaving me with not much to post here, except the joy of skiing, or how much trouble I'm having with IE.

Of course, it's also easier to talk about your problems when everyone you know is thousands of miles away, and everyone around you is a stranger.

Well, anyway. Been working on my resume today. Here's an excerpt:

Work: 5 years in creative department at the Rose/Glenn Group in Reno, NV [link:RGG website], working with nationally recognized CD, and leaving with title of Senior Art Director. Clients ranged from statewide banking to local and regional tourism. [links to selected work]
Responsibilities: Responsible for the creation of deliverables ranging in format from magazine and newspaper print to television and web based communications. Managed projects from conception to completion, including interfacing with vendors, printers, photographers and local artists. Manager of small creative team under the overall direction of the Creative Director.


So... hire me, you!

***

Why should I let the toad work
squat on my life?
Can't I use my wit as a pitchfork
and drive the brute off?

Really, though, I can't wait to get back to work. It's strange here. Somedays I feel like I've done nothing all day, and my mom will say, like, ‘take a break, you don't have to work all the time!’ So I look back on my day and, yeah, I cleaned horse stalls, cleaned the kitchen, my room, worked on my resume or a web site, whatever. All this junk. Still I feel like I haven't done anything.

In this society, to be is to do. We are judged and defined by our incomes, by our work. And saying ‘sorting things out’, or ‘getting my portfolio together’ sounds like a poor excuse. Self-mollifying words spoken by a guilty stumble-bum, destined fo life ‘up lanes, eat[ing] windfalls and tinned sardines.’