It has resurfaced -the life question- you know, the one about career
- this time, from, who else? --H. I had managed to not worry
about it what with trying to survive day to day, week to week, emotionally and peacefully. Now a realization- looming now- that when I return from Chicago
next month: no job. H has suggested an artistic sabbatical
, to write and submit writing, but -while I love that idea- I can't take the time off to do that. I will have to earn some sort of wage
. H complains that temping
is a waste of time and creativity
-and I agree with her- so I scan the want ads and ponder. Ponder
. Ponder. Grad school
? Not yet -that or art or acting would certainly give me excellent training to continue to be unemployed.
I talk to an artist at a comic book show today. What was his name? Michael Badger? I flip through a Batman. "It pays well," he says. "Lets me do other things." I ask if he prefers his solo work. "Well, look, I get 100,000 readers to buy Batman, 100,000 people read it- and I can put my politics in there and reach that many, I can do my own title and what? I'll reach 5000 people, already converted. And for a guy like me who can't draw, to do Batman, well that's a kick, too, especially when everyone at DC can't stand the way I draw."
Flea market day. I acquire a steamer rack, a Jules Feiffer paperback, a shopping cart, a record album (Holly Near and Inti-Illimani)- but no cereal bowl. Not fussy about style: saw lots of glasses, plates, silverware, saucers. No bowl. Is this because they cost only $.75 to $1.75? Do they break? Does no one turn them out for resale? Or is someone arriving early and buying them all up? Ashby BART flea market: good place to find shoes, chairs, records, imported clothing....
Also picked up a discarded copy of the Spectator before heading back to Oakland for the comic book show. Out of there by 1:00 and ready to have lunch which I'd conveniently brought with me.
Swimming to Cambodia is on TV and I watch it again. It's more animated than I remember. Seeing Spalding Gray live, especially Interviewing the Audience, made me think of him as deadpan, monotone, quiet. I watch the movie -and again the end chokes me up, tears well up in my eyes. I watch the movie and again I am inspired to write, to confess, to put my life into a story-- but first, I decide to listen to my own voice.... A recording I made many months ago of myself reading from "Black Box," the short story I wrote at Pacific Bell.