A Reasonable Facsimile of Accomplishment

I have, as a friend pointed out to me today, been slacking with my blog. But never fear - I have, as usual, a small arsenal of excuses to explain my long absence. The pink eye turned out to be a rather nasty virus that would not go away. Staring at a computer screen for more than a few minutes became a painful experience. Any kind of light made me want to reenact that scene from Saw where the unfortunate victim has to cut out his own eye with a scalpel in order to save himself from the jaws of death. My eyes were dry, scratchy, and constantly covered in crust and flaking skin tissue. No, sir, I was not a pretty boy last week.

After four visits to the doctor, I was sent to an opthamologist who prescribed a corticosteroid-slash-antibiotic drop that has at last banished the inflamed redness and infection. However my eyes have become so accustomed to the 'roids that I'm still applying the drops daily. They're addicted, I think, and now I'm on a prescribed cycle of gradual weaning so that my eyes can one day live free of chemical dependence. I haven't worn contact lenses in over two weeks and have had to face the world wearing my glasses. Which I don't mind all that much, but it means that I can't wear sunglasses (I don't own any with a prescription) so when the sun is blinding, I have to take it - and when my eyes were inflamed, I had no way to hide their ugliness from the world.

Thankfully the infection disappeared in time for me to spin on Friday night and to entertain some out of town guests for the past three days without infecting all who came into contact with me. My dear friend Earl, whose Oscar party I attended last weekend at the height of my infection, did not fare so well. I'm not sure he's forgiven me, but he seems to have gotten past it enough to continue speaking to me. I'm thankful that at least his bout of red-eyed freakiness didn't drag on half as long as mine did. And to think I saw the Ex that same night and he came away clean. I'm not mean-spirited, but if I had to choose one person to infect... well, let's move on. I obviously have some residual bitterness.

So I've just spent an amazing three days with my oldest friend (22 years!) who was visiting from Thunder Bay. Bambi (yes, that's her real name) brought along her best friend Collin, who I had not met previously but who is fantastic, and enjoyed a lot of drinking, shopping, dancing, and laughing our asses off. We walked past the Olsen twins outside of Holt Renfrew as we were trucking across Bloor Street on Monday. At first we weren't sure it was them, but seeing as it's Fashion Week here in Toronto and Holt's was covered with security and television cameras, I figured it's safe to say it was. Besides, what other celebs look like emaciated troll dolls with giant shades on and travel as a set? I'm not really the fawning type (well, maybe in the face of legendary and respected talent I'd get a little gushy) but at least Bambi and Collin have a sighting to share with friends back home.

Now that they're gone, though, I've become a bit melancholy. It's not that I miss them - we had a great time, but it's nice to have my house back in order, you know? - but something else. I'm feeling a bit lost lately. I don't know where I'm going. I look around me and I see all these extraordinary people and I think, what the fuck am I doing with my life? Why have I been running a furniture shop for three years when it's not going to get me anywhere or contribute anything of value to the world?

Bambi, after a decidedly uncoventional and definitely tough upbringing, is now married, has two university degrees, and is now employed as a teacher. Collin, whose mother is a parapalegic former Olympian, is a drug and alcohol counsellor and Thunder Bay's reigning Empress of drag. Another friend of mine was recently offered an amazing position at the bank he works at and appears to be on the verge of a brilliant career in television. My sister is an out lesbian police officer, putting herself out there every day not only protecting society but doing her bit to change it, too.

I read my bio (look to the left) and realize that when I said my job provides money to live and structure to my days, I'm selling myself short. It's not that that is all I require of it - it's that it's all this job could ever provide. And while I do derive satisfaction from playing music for people, I'm not doing it nearly enough to make up the difference. So where does this leave me?

My first thought is that I'm lazy, but upon reflection I know that's not true. I am getting lazy in my current job, but that's because I'm bored and have lost interest, not because I'm inherently lazy. I am generally a living example of the whole "a job worth doing is a job worth doing well" concept and will apply the same attention to detail to cleaning my toilet as I would merchandising my store.

No, looking at the examples above, the common denominator I see is discipline. These people have worked hard and diligently to get where they are. I, on the other hand, usually take what falls into my lap and run with it as far as it can go - rather than go out and go after what I want. Making the most of opportunities is not a bad thing, but at some point you need to play an active role and coax the opportunities into existence.

Part of my problem is that I'm not sure what it is I want. Faced with an abundance of choices, I inevitably become overwhelmed and choose to pursue none of them. So I'm going to sleep on this and in the beautiful morning light of a fresh new day, I will do what I always do when I find myself feeling lost: make a list. The little jobs I've been putting off, things I say I want to do but haven't quite gotten around to do doing, ideas I've had that I'll forget if I don't jot it down. All the shit swirling around my head will have a new home on a piece of paper where I can revise, edit, or cross them out as I see fit, and later I will look at it and feel a sense of accomplishment.

Or at least a reasonable facsimile to get me through until the real thing comes along.