Rye, experience, and the afterthoughts the two equate to.

[HEyHEY]

A few years ago, I remember heading out East on Canada 3,000. It was a nervous time, I'd lived out East before and had many great friends there. I was wearing the only suit I owned at the time as I jetted across this huge country. And I also had on a brown fedora I had bought in Edmonton a few weeks prior.
At this point I had failed alot in my life, I mean that. I grew up with learning disabilities and always regarded myself as a fuck -up. I remember never believing that I would actually finish Journalism school, after-all, I had never finished anything before. University, Douglas College, the 48-cj2A jeep I had at a friends.
Oddly though, through all this I remember feeling something I really seemed to believe in. "If I don't become a journalist, I'll kill myself." And I meant it too. I was serious on that plane. What else would I do with my life?
Well, a few months later I was well into J-school, and getting good grades. I figured it was because I had a love for what I was doing, which was true. Then in the second semester, my grades dropped off, enough to have the head of the program talk to me, I had to sit in a meeting with the College head, program head, and one of the chief instructors. It was there I admitted I was a dyslexic and had ADD. They took a form of mercy on me and next semester I picked up my grades alot. They went back to the same standing as the first semester, mostly mid to high 80s. I still can't figure how I managed it.
Months before that situation I remember writng my first real news story. I was so in love with the idea of being a reporter that I spent a rocket-ship worth of my own money on a hotel to cover the free Thanksgiving dinner given to destitute people in Moncton, New Brunswick. I went to a pub for lunch, sat down, and with great excitement wrote every question I wanted to ask.
I had my questions finished and got up, lit a smoke, and headed to the local Baptist Kitchen with Bob Dylan's "Nashville Skyline rag" playing in my head. The streets were cold and it was great weather for a walk. I did well in the interview and the only thing to this day I regret is that I took a lousy picture.
After the interview, I went back to the Colonial Inn, a place I heard was huge prostitute workplace, but it was cheap. I sat in my room and smoked drum tabacoo while drinking coke and ice. I paced all around the room thinking of the perect way to write this piece on the free Thanksgiving dinner. "I can't wait till I'm paid to live like this," I thought.
It was the day the first Osama video came out, I got a phone-call halfway through the piece from my buddy Matt, he had tracked down where I was staying told me to switch on the TV. I watched it, realized what was happening with the world and was excited that I was becoming a reporter at that time.
Now, when I read that piece, still locked in the memory of an old laptop, I think "what a piece of crap." But a pleasant feeling hit me a month ago in a hotel room during the editor's conference in Williams Lake. I was writing a piece for the next week's paper while killing time before the drinking binge was to begin.The feeling was; I was being paid to to exactly what I wanted to be paid to do.
Life's funny, something makes us so numb we don't even realize when we've reached a goal. Afte that there is just another one to reach. And life goes on in a neverending swirl of discontent, like your life is a spincycle control by a person that never runs out of quarters.
I still think that way (discontentment), I look at how much I've lost the love for the craft, I don't dislike it, but it's not what it used to be. The romance is gone.
All I can think is, "My paper isn't good enough. I have to stop using submitted stuff. Fuck that typo on page one is driving me nuts!"
I have the unfortunate position of being a person never happy with themself, I always seem to believe I could have done more, and many times I could have. Lucky for me I like my job, so I always look forward to making it up next week.
When I think like that I try to remind myself, "I am who I am and I can't change that. I'm just a person."
Then it comes down to the only time I feel content is when I've taken some nervous energy and put it to good use on a computer screen, to make something remotley meaningful. Writing news stories doesn't do it anymore, many times, it's just routine. I write for a living just like a McDonald's employee makes big macs.
There's times like this, when I have a strange feeling inside that won't rest until I've written something. And then I get to experience the satisfaction of queling the nervous itch by residing in a haze, staring at the computer, as I write, which is the purpose of this piece tonight.
I had goals that seem out of reach now because of the way I've let my life become un-organized. I need to stop drinking so much, get back to a good diet, wake up at 6:30 to put on a suit and tie. Then I need to find that inner spirit again, the one that made me get off every morning on the fact I had the best job in the world. However, I suppose most of life is riding the muse.
Just some thoughts on a Wednesday night. - HEyHEY.

[dolo amber]

1. I don't have much to offer

other than encouragement...I think you'll be fine once the *second album syndrome* wears off a bit. You're just in transition...but definitely in the right field. Enjoy the muse ride. ;)

[HEyHEY]

2. "I don't have much to offer"

Hey, who does.

Life differs for everyone, there is no answer. Just get past the "Lifeis bullshit" crap and have some fun.