The Craft of Witchery

When I was your age, I started making potions. Witch's brews. No one taught this craft to me. It was a knowledge which seemed to have been imprinted in my DNA.

Remember that song you sang in Kindergarten? Stirring and stirring and stirring my brew, OOOOOoooooo! I sang that song, too. And it meant something to me. It stirred a longing deep in my chest. And then I heard - from who knows where - a Shakespearean couplet: “Double, double toil and trouble: fire burn and cauldron bubble.” I knew that sensation – that fire burn and cauldron bubble sensation. Innately, I knew it.

I would go to a secluded part of the woods and set up next to a creek. I dug my fingers into the rich black dirt creating a hole big enough to accommodate a standard mixing bowl from my mother's kitchen - one which I had taken for this purpose. The bowl was placed into the earthen pit. And then I gathered my ingredients.

I collected creek water in a cup, ceremoniously walking down the bank to the edge of the water, filling my cup, walking back up the bank and emptying the cup into my “cauldron.” I repeated this process until there was enough water with which to create my base. I added soil, which I stirred in sweeping circular motions with a stick. Stirring with a stick was elemental in the process. Sometimes the brew was thick, sometimes not.

I gathered ingredients as they spoke to me: the prickly sweet gum balls, which looked like futuristic modular housing for alien beings. These would invoke a higher knowledge, one with which this world is not acquainted. The seeds of maple trees resembling tiny fairy wings would, so I believed, imbue my potion with a bit of fairy magic: part mischief, part delight. The flower petals from the tulip poplar tree - sometimes whole blossoms - would be included. Bits of moss. Oak catkins, which when intact, resembled stringy green caterpillars. But I crushed the stamens releasing the granular bits of pollen and stirred them into my brew.

When I had been jolted out of a synergy, whenever I felt displaced or disconnected from everyone around me - but most importantly, from myself – I would make a potion. It wasn't even a conscious decision. I just found myself going to the creek bank and setting everything up. The potion's purpose, which was not known to me at the time, was simply to bring myself back to my core, back to my heart and spirit. It was to reunite me with magic and hence, with life.

Considering circumstances that arose when I was six, it makes sense to me that I would embark upon this practice of making witch's brews. I was deeply injured by someone I trusted. I was violated in a way only a woman can understand. I sought justice from my parents on this occasion but it was to no avail. Some things are better swept under a rug when you are a working parent, exhausted from long hours of a thankless job. It takes less effort to stifle a child and pretend nothing happened than to confront a wrong and stand up against it. I completely understand their perspective now. But at the time, I retreated to my own world of making something new from preexisting crap in an attempt to order my world, to make sense of it all.

Soon after that, I began to make potions. I cast spells of wellness out into the world. Spells of justice, of making things right. As I meticulously selected my ingredients, I felt a personal sense of well-being. I felt right with my world. As I combined my ingredients into the basin I'd planted in the earth, I felt my sense of wellness being projected out into the universe. I felt a powerful force field growing larger around me. I was creating a charm of protection, of self love, and of well-being. I see this now. Back then, I acted on impulse.

As I grew older, I fell out of the practice of casting spells. I followed in the footsteps of those who had come before me. I found employment in order to make money. I married a man. I gave birth to two children. The wildness within me was tamed. I stayed in a small box of acceptable behavior. And this box grew tighter and tighter, compressing me, stifling me.

My daughter began making potions around her sixth year. She gathered rainwater and rich black dirt from the woods. She too stirred her potions in a sweeping, circular motion with a stick. She selected tree bark and acorns, pine needles, leaves and rocks to go into her brew. One day, she found a dead bat in her brew. This was both alarming and mysterious. But we are taught by our Native Ancestors that bat medicine signifies a rebirth – the end of one way of life and the beginning of another. We were getting ready to move to a different state, away from the only home my daughter had known. And so it seemed that the bat had found it's way into the brew for a reason. I cried the day my daughter found the bat and I did not understand why.

In time, I reached a point in which I could no longer breathe. I could not speak. I felt a heaviness in my heart. It became necessary to break out of my small box and to set my heart free. I planted seeds and pulled up weeds. I caressed earth worms and carried water to my plants. I again experienced the sense of well-being that I had known as a child. I grew wild again.

We have a wild streak that should never be tamed, you and I. You will notice when people try to tame you. They will tell you that you can't do something that you want to do. They will tell you that you do not have the wisdom to make choices for yourself. They will tell you how to behave, how to dress, how to manipulate your face and hair to fit their definition of acceptable beauty. They will not see the beauty of your heart. They will not see the beauty of your wildness. It will be hard for you to keep your wild heart alive. But this is necessary to your survival.

When we lose our connection to nature and our urge to create, we lose our life force. We begin to feel sad and lonely, or strangely empty inside. This is because we are neglecting our wild and magical nature: that which creates a desire to dwell among forests, mountains, oceans and rivers, to interact with all living creatures and to make things.

This is why magic is necessary for you to practice. This is why you must make your own potions. It will help you to put order to a world which makes no sense. It is necessary to invoke the help of our Mother Earth because her strength cannot be conquered. Through Mother Earth, we experience the mysteries and wonders of nature. Through her, our urge to create grows strong.

The knowledge of crafting witch's brews can take many forms. Sometimes it is in the form of paint on paper. Sometimes it is in the form of a mask one paints on one's face. Sometimes, it takes the form of words on a page. It could be a cake you bake. Or a song you sing. You must find your own means of crafting a witch's brew. And you must hone your craft well. Do this for your own protection. Do this for your own sense of well-being. It is up to you to carry on the tradition of magic-making.  

Moral Pontifications Regarding Babies and Monies

I sat in the cafe area of Planet Care yesterday eating my dinner: a banana, an apple and some peanut butter.  I've run out of money again.  I rely heavily on peanut butter and bananas for my sustenance at times like this.  It is unfortunate and ironic that I work in a supermarket filled with healthy foods that I cannot afford.  Sometimes I laugh at the irony.  Sometimes my ire is too great for laughter.

As I looked out the window of the cafe area of Planet Care, I noticed a pregnant woman and a man, presumably the person who impregnated her, get out of their car and walk across the parking lot to the doors of Planet Care.  I had an immediate sensation of revulsion in my gut upon seeing this pregnant couple.  I examined this revulsion and found myself thinking, "Why would anyone want to have a baby in this day and age?!"

Why would anyone want to have a baby in this day and age.  

Suddenly, the realization hit me: I have allowed the cannibalistic mentality of society to consume my thought process.  I have, to a degree, lost hope that our world will improve.  I have temporarily become That Person Whom I Abhor at any sort of family or social gathering: the Pessimist. The Nihilist.  The one who focuses on the destruction of the planet's natural resources, the monopolization of our food supply, the corporate takeover of our government, the unwillingness of the NRA to be reasonable, the vast number of people who are blatantly angry and aggressive who contribute further destruction through their anger and aggression.  I have grown angry.  And I am contributing to the destruction of the world around me through this anger.

My thoughts have been cycling around the topic of money to the point of obsession.  How can I make more?  What job can I see myself doing that would pay enough to comfortably sustain me?  I've invested money in therapy so that I can overcome the obstacles to my own growth....so that I can get a job that is more in alignment with who I am and what I am, a job that pays me a living wage.  I have taken money out of my food supply and put into a professional counselor for this reason.

The stunning realization is that there is nothing wrong with me.  I am merely trying to conform to a world whose principles I reject.  I have worth, despite the fact that I earn substandard wages.  When I have time to write or paint or play music, I am aware of my place in this world.  Everything makes sense.  When I put  time and energy into the pursuit of money (job-hunting), I feel like I've raped myself.

The thing that has become abundantly clear is the need to create a new world for myself.  A world of freedom.  A friend once told me that we are all slaves to money.  Whether you have it or whether you don't, your existence is ruled by money. My goal is to emancipate myself from this mental slavery. My goal is to spend more time enjoying my life by doing the things that I find rewarding and less time chasing money.  It is an attitudinal shift. Not a financial one.

While it can be argued that one needs money to do the things that one enjoys, I will argue that one can find a way to do the things one enjoys without money. For example, I was painting with The Greensboro Mural Project one Saturday and a man pulled over in his car and offered free paint.  Free paint?!  How can that be?!  He's a painting contractor.  He has a lot of left-over paint from jobs he's done.  Rather than take all this to the recycling center, he would like to give it to people who could use it!  Imagine that!  Free paint from someone who was just going to throw it away!

There is a facebook group called "Friends Swapping Stuff"  where people will post the need to get rid of certain items and the need to acquire certain items.  Sometimes it works like this: someone will announce that they have a couch they no longer need.  They would like to have garden tools.  So someone with garden tools approaches them about swapping for their couch.  Or, someone who needs the couch finds someone with garden tools and gives that person something that he or she needs and then swaps the tools for the couch.  Sometimes people offer things for giveaway and do not ask for anything in return.  I got a piano this way.  The only thing I had to do was move it.

I want to believe in a world where money doesn't rule.  I want to utilize resourcefulness and cooperation rather than fear and competition.  While I recognize that money-making will be a part of my existence, I do not want my existence to be defined by money-making.  Rather, I want my existence to be defined by the sheer joy of living as manifested through creative acts.

I went on a job interview recently in which I was asked what I would like to see myself doing in a job scenario.  I immediately said I'd like to write.

"What else?" he asked.

"I'd like to utilize my networking and promotional skills."

"What else?"

"I'd like to work with the public."

"What else?"

"I'd like to....."

I started to zone out here.  What was he asking me exactly?  How was I supposed to answer?  I was really trying to avoid saying things like "I want to paint vaginas all over Greensboro.  I want to make mask and puppet theatre pieces in the park downtown.  I want to bring Carl Sandburg's "Rootabaga Stories" to life.  I want to be in an all girl cowpunk band that writes and performs silly songs.  I want to make movies."  I knew if I said these things, I wouldn't get the job.  But those are the things I really want to do.  So I edited my answers. There was a time when I did not do this.

I had an interview once in which I was blatantly honest.  I did not get the job.  But I was on top of the world at the end of it. Happy beyond measure.  Because I'd told the truth.

To lie to myself and others is to diminish the life force inside of me.  Creativity is my Truth.  I vow, therefore, to only speak the Truth and nothing but the Truth. 



 

In Character

To supplement my earnings at Planet Care, I have resorted to busking. I paint myself gold and stand completely still on a box. When someone drops money in my tip bucket, I come to life and either do a little schtick or hand the tipper something that I obtained cheaply or for free. This is the business of living statue work. It can be lucrative when conditions are favorable.

I attempted to take advantage of the First Friday Indie Market in downtown Greensboro as a forum for my living statue work several times throughout the summer. On my first try, I was told by a police officer that I needed a panhandler's license in order to solicit money. So I was forced to stop prematurely.

I got my panhandler's license. It took longer than usual because of some mix-up and some renovation and so on. But it finally arrived and I was ready to give the Indie Market another go. Unfortunately, I caught a terrible summer cold a few days before the market. I opted to stay home and nurse myself back to health.

The day of my third try, I was filling in for one of the administrative folks at Planet Care and had to finish a certain amount of work before I could call it a day. My obligations held me there much later than I had hoped, causing me to arrive at the Indie market an hour and a half before it ended. However, my time there was fun and I made a substantial amount of money.

My fourth try came during the vicious heat wave. It was hard to imagine painting myself metallic gold and wearing clothing that concealed all of my body while standing still on a box in record heat. Again, I counted my losses and stayed home. Which brings us to the present: The Fifth Try.

I had been planning this day for a couple of weeks. I needed to make a certain amount of money so that I could go to the beach for a few days. I had my strategy in place and for most of the day today, I worked on the logistics of this strategy.

• I needed to be at the market by 4:00 p.m. to maximize the amount of time, hence the number of tips.

• I needed to have one personalized card with a pithy saying or wise crack for each dollar I wanted to make - assuming each tip is on average one dollar.

• I needed to eat well during the day and hydrate so that I could maintain my energy for five hours of standing on a box.

• I needed to start getting ready no later than 3:00 p.m. so that I could get downtown in a timely manner.

• I needed to head downtown early enough to find a parking place convenient to the Indie Market to minimize the amount of time that people would see me walking. I am a statue, you see. And once the make-up and costume are on and I am in public, I do not make eye contact with people, I do not talk to people. Unless they tip me.

All these bullet points were mapped out in my brain. I spent a good portion of the day making cards to pass out. I ate well and drank water. But as the day progressed, little things caused the erosion of my strategy: an errand here, lending a helping hand there, getting overheated/in need of hydration.

One little thing after another that I added on to my day put me two hours behind schedule. 'I'll get there when I get there,' is a mantra for failure.

I finally began the process of preparing to leave. This consists of dressing in my golden attire, painting my face gold and donning my golden boots. My apartment was so hot that the application of make-up without streaking was a challenge. I cut on the air conditioner.

I interfaced with my friend, the hurdy-gurdy player, via telephone. He was to join me in my busking endeavor but was also running late. We attempted to make a meetup plan. But as time continued to lurch forward, we left it at, "I'll call you when I'm there."

I packed my things - my box upon which to stand, a piece of fabric with which to cover said box, my tip bucket, my "Tip for a Tip" sign with my panhandler's license attached, a bottle of water for drinking once I'd completed my statue shift - into my car and proceeded downtown.

It was too late to park anywhere near the market but not too late to get a spot in a lot that was not inordinately far. I drove straight to that lot and had no problem finding a parking space. I got out of my car, opened the back door to gain access to all my stuff and began to put on my golden gloves when a woman approached me and began to ask me questions.

Let me again emphasize that once I am made up and dressed as a statue, I create a barrier between myself and people. I do not talk. I do not move. When I have to move from point "A" to point "B" - for example, from my car to the site of the Indie Market - I keep my head down and stare at the ground as I walk, avoiding eye contact.

When I was approached by this particular woman, I denied my impulse to keep quiet and just give a curt nod of the head. I spoke to her. And as I engaged in conversation, I closed my car door. And once its latch was shut, I realized that I had made a terrible mistake.

My keys, my wallet, my box, my tip bucket were all inside the car and each of its four doors were locked.

Terrific.

The woman left. I did not mention my predicament to her. Why should I? What could she do? My boyfriend has a spare key but he was at work. And I couldn't remember his phone number. In fact, I couldn't remember anyone's phone number. They are all stored in my cell phone. So what use would it be to borrow someone's phone? I had no money on me. Nothing but my golden attire and my golden make-up.

It began to rain. As I stood miserably by my car, I decided that I might as well seek shelter under a near-by tree to avoid making myself more miserable. So there I stood, a mock statue, just down the street from the real statue of General Greene, under a tree in the rain by the side of the road for motorists and pedestrians to observe. I couldn't solicit money because my tip bucket was locked in my car.

I have no survival instincts. When I am thrust into a challenging situation, I often just stare off into space for a good long while. And this is what I chose to do in this instance.

After a time, I decided to walk to the Indie Market to see if I could find my hurdy-gurdy friend. As we had made no definite plans other than "I'll call you once I'm there," I did not know where to find him. Remember: my cell phone was locked in the car.

I trudged along the sidewalk in my golden cowboy boots, keeping my face down. I am a statue. People aren't supposed to see me move. They cannot look into my eyes. I am a statue, dammit. What a fucked up predicament for a statue to be in.

I arrived at the market and found no hurdy-gurdy friend. I couldn't stand there and wait. Not without a tip bucket. I was attracting a lot of attention and did not know what to do about this. I could not talk to anyone. I am a statue! I turned around and headed back to the parking lot with absolutely no idea what I would do once there. I thought maybe my friend would magically be waiting for me and would know exactly how to break into my car and we'd be in business. But no.

I considered going into Design Archives where a couple of people I know work. What would I do once there? I'd have to explain my situation and try to get some sort of help. That would require talking in front of people. I just couldn't do that.

I am a statue! Dammit!

I leaned against my car, staring at the contrast between the gold of my boots and the rough gray of the asphalt beneath my feet. The air was thick. I was growing thirsty. I felt dizzy.

Oh god! I'm going to pass out! Breathe! Just breathe!!!

It occurred to me at that point that I should walk back towards the Indie Market in search of a police officer. Maybe a police person could help me. I found such a person parked right next to the Indie Market. I approached the driver's side of the police car. The window was down. A standard issue balding and mustachioed man with a pink face looked at me suspiciously. I leaned over and spoke very quietly so that no one around could hear. I told the policeman of my predicament and asked whether he could help. He said he might be able to open the door but wasn't making any guarantees. I thanked him and he invited me to get into the back of his police car. This is not the sort of thing I would voluntarily do under any other circumstances. But it seemed expeditious at the time.

The police officer drove away from the Indie Market and for a brief moment, I panicked. He could be taking me downtown for all I know! I mean, how bizarre is it for a golden woman to approach a policeman and say 'can you unlock my car?' Why the fuck should he believe my story? I do, after all, look more than a little odd.

Despite my rising fear, the policeman drove to the lot where my ridiculous pecan-bombed car sat. The kind officer asked what kind of tree I park my car under. "Pecan. Makes a mess, doesn't it?" Clearly, it arouses even more suspicion when you never wash your car.

The officer tried using a "Slim Jim" and then another device before he opened a big red bag that looked like it might contain some serious firearms. He pulled out a little inflatable device and a wedge and eventually pried my door open enough to fit a long stick inside. He used this stick to roll my window down bit by bit until there was just enough space for me to reach inside and unlock the door. All in all, this entire process took about 45 minutes.

I was grateful that I now had access to my things. I thanked the officer profusely and offered to show him my driver's license. He agreed that this might be a good idea. Fortunately for me, my driver's license, my license plate and my inspection were all up to date. I had no outstanding warrants for my arrest. So I was not hauled off to jail or anything comparably stressful. Had I found myself in this predicament a couple of years ago, things could have gone even further downhill. I have to count my blessings, here.

First things first: I called my hurdy-gurdy friend. He had driven back home to Julian (twenty-five minutes away) once it started raining, he couldn't find me and I wouldn't answer my phone. Because it was locked in the car. We commiserated with each other about the rotten luck and all. And then, it dawned on me.

The cards that I'd made to hand out to tippers were not in the car. I had forgotten them in the packing up process. I'd left them at home.

ARRRGGGGAAAHHHHH!!!!

It was like some bizarre journey into the Twilight Zone. How could all this ridiculous stuff be happening when I'd planned so carefully? I'd devised my strategy.

It was approaching 7:30. My tip sign reads "Tip for a Tip." I couldn't busk for tips without having a tip to give back. I sat in my car, the most miserable of miserable, and forced myself to start the engine and go home.

It was 7:45 when I arrived at my apartment. The Indie Market ends at 9:00. I could grab the cards, go back towards the Indie Market, park my car, gather my stuff and walk the few blocks to the Indie Market and probably arrive by 8:15. I could busk for 45 minutes. But by this time, I was completely disheartened. I had no more fight. The statue of General Greene would be disappointed in me, but I had lost the warrior spirit.

The best laid plans....fallen by the wayside.....dropped off a steep cliff, dashed against the rocks below, shattered into a million pieces.

And so I look for the lesson - the moral of this story. I cannot find one. I rant to my boyfriend who tells me that, "People like us, people who get distracted easily.....on days when we have important stuff to do - creative stuff - we need to clear everything else off our plates. We need to think about that one thing that we must accomplish that day and that one thing only." While this sounds like reasonable advice, it doesn't seem to comprise the lesson in its entirety. There is more.

I've been meeting with a naturopath to help me with a series of mental and physical maladies. In approaching these holistically, my naturopath assigns me certain tasks. It is my job to honor my healing process by undertaking these tasks. The task assigned me for this month is to schedule studio time for myself - time in which I am actively making art. I am to adhere to this schedule as if it were a work schedule. And I have not been doing this.

I realize that I had scheduled out my living statue day, but I did not adhere to the schedule. This is not merely a matter of being distracted. It is a willful insistence on not honoring my own creative life. It is a jab at my true nature. It is an insidious attempt to end my life prematurely. And it comes from within my own psyche.

I was angry and disappointed over my failure. I can forgive myself for locking my keys in the car. I can forgive myself for leaving my tip cards at home. But I find it incredibly difficult to forgive myself for willfully disregarding the schedule I'd laid out for myself in order to maximize my potential for earning money and having fun. But ultimately, forgiveness is needed in order to move forward - in order for the lesson to become fully absorbed by my self-sabotaging psyche.

Still, you have to admire my commitment to the character of statue. Despite all my difficulties, I remained faithful to the idea of being a piece of rock.

The Interview

Sometimes, I amaze myself.

I had a job interview this week: my first in a few years. While I am still under the employ of Planet Care, I send out resumes and applications periodically, in case there's a better job situation floating around somewhere. I look at it like fishing. I keep casting lines out into the sea of potential jobs to see if I get a bite. Quite surprisingly, a casual inquiry led me into the office of a small business owner looking for a Jane Do-All sort. An impromptu interview was arranged.

1) Do not arrive late.

I arrived two minutes late. And while that is not significantly late, one does not need any additional stress or self-doubt clouding one's psyche during an interview.

2) Bring a copy of your resume.

Additionally, I realized too late that I had not bothered to dig up a copy of my resume.

3) Dress better than you would under ordinary circumstances.

I walked in off the street, hurried, disheveled from a gusty wind, feeling the particular kind of gritty that comes from working around the flying cotton and hemp fibers at my second job and from sitting in the grease-coated interior of my boyfriend's Volvo. I had taken the time in between working at my two jobs to participate in this interview. I was dressed in the clothes that are appropriate for my sewing job and my can-stacking job.

The business office which I entered had a sterile environment. Walking in, I became aware of the expanse of floor space between the main desk and the front door. The walls were a dark color. There was no art hanging behind the desk. And there was no music. I become acutely aware of the lack of music in spaces that have none. This is an unnerving sensation.

Jane Do-All stood behind the desk. I walked the requisite floor space to bridge the gap between her and myself. "Are you Kathy?" she asked before I had a chance to ask if she was "Jane." I extended my hand to clasp hers.

Jane Do-All is a highly competent lady with a distinct sophistication. Most likely she is younger than me, but I felt like an untrained teenager in her presence. Which is not to say she was intimidating. On the contrary, she was most gracious and did her best to make a roustabout vagabond like myself feel welcome.

I became acutely aware of her appearance and the way every aspect of it was acceptable. The length of her hair, her choice of jewelry, the tasteful application of make-up, her standard issue shell dress, an understated confidence. The combination of all of these elements created a subtle air of professionalism which I admired.

Jane Do-All explained that Mister Master, the business owner, had stepped out but should return momentarily. She directed me to a lounge-like area to the side of her task station. Puffy fake leather chairs - or maybe they were real - in beige and red were clustered around a low table. A badly rendered floral painting with garish colors hung on one wall. I was instructed to have a seat. And within seconds, Mister Master arrived.

Mister Master sported a suit jacket over a t-shirt, along with jeans and boots. It is one of those familiar quirky looks reminiscent of a Woody Allen character or some cool guy one knew in the 80's. It is completely unoriginal and tired. And Mister Master struggled to keep it fresh and vibrant.

4) Even though people tell you to be yourself, don't do it.

The requisite polite banter ensued. I felt an air of discomfort. I examined this while attempting to maintain continuity in the banter. I was not personally uncomfortable. There was something about me that was making Mister Master and Jane Do-All uncomfortable. And I was picking up on this.

I tried not to psyche myself out. I tried to relax and be myself. But there was this nagging voice inside of me saying, "Act professional! Act professional!!!"

How can I act professional when I look like I just came in off the range?

Project confidence!

How do I project confidence?

Believe in yourself! Believe in your ability to do this job!

How do I know whether I can do this job when I don't know what this job entails?

"Here's what this job entails," said Jane Do-All. And she proceeded to explain all the do's that must be done.

5) Pretend like the job you are applying for is the most important thing in the world to you.

I interjected, whenever I felt an opportunity to do so, that I have experience in this capacity as a result of having been employed at X. And I have experience in that capacity as a result of having been employed at Y. And my employment at Z made me great at networking. At which point, Jane Do-All said, "You have a variety of experiences. What makes you choose the jobs you get?"

Panic.

No, no!!! Don't panic! You have an answer!

"Well, in the past I've looked for jobs that would challenge me...."

Good! Good!

"....jobs that would allow me to expand my skill set....."

Nice!

"......jobs that would enable me to learn and to grow as a person....."

A little over the top, but you're doing fine!

".....and to be honest, I was a single mother for years. I had to take whatever job would pay the bills....."

Mmmmm.......I'm not liking this direction.

".......Currently, however, I need a regular paycheck. I've had some unstable job situations in the past. Now I'm happy just to have the steady income."

No! Wrong direction! Turn back!!!

8) Do not mention your true passion in life. Rather, pretend that this job is of the utmost importance to you.

"My current job just doesn't pay me enough. I'm an artist. This is my vocation and the thing of primary importance in my life. I want to earn the money I need to survive so that I have the freedom to create."

Crap. We're sunk.

The professional woman and the business owner were uncomfortably silent for a few seconds. Until that point, they hadn't missed a beat. And this is when I realized I'd taken this being myself thing too far.

Mister Master explained that he was really hoping to find someone that would think of this do-all position as a career, not just a job. He was hoping to find someone that would feel excited about seeing the business not only flourish but expand. He wanted to find someone that would enjoy reaping the benefits of said expansion.

I wondered how I might reverse myself gracefully. Luckily Jane Do-All asked if I had any questions for them.

Ok! Here's your chance to come up with something that indicates your level of interest!

I asked her to describe her average day. She struggled to do this, which I found peculiar. The thing that immediately came to her was, "On Monday we meet with the bookkeeper who looks over all the receipts I've saved and everything I've entered into Quickbooks. Mostly I just sit around and wait for her to finish. That takes up most of the day. Sometimes we have meetings with CEO's of agencies. Sometimes I have to entertain clients."

"Anything else?" she asked after this vague description.

9) Do not further indicate your obvious lack of professionalism.

"Well, yes. I, um, forgive me if this seems superficial. But I came in today dressed as I normally dress - because I have to work at both of my jobs today and sandwiched this interview between them. I notice that your attire is more business-casual. And you carry an air of professionalism. Is this a vibe that you wish this office to maintain?"

What the hell? Are you actively trying to insult their intelligence?

The words escaped my mouth even as I realized it was an inane thing to ask. The damage was done. I needed to simply accept that some part of me had chosen to tank this interview. I may as well fully commit to that decision from this point on.

"Oh that isn't superficial at all. There are days when we meet with CEO's of different agencies and we feel it is important to dress up to their standards."

"Not me," says Mister Master. "I dress as I please."

"Well, that's not entirely true. Remember that time I wouldn't let you wear your hoodie."

I felt like that exchange was for my benefit.

At the end of our chat, Jane Do-All asked if there was anything else I wanted to ask or say.

"Yes. Thank-you for taking time to meet with me and tell me about your business. It sounds truly great. And I think that my skill set is compatible with the position you need to fill. However, I have to be completely honest with you and say that I would not view this as a career. It would be just a job for me. I am 50 years old and I've denied myself the opportunity to fully explore my creative life. At this stage in the game, making art is all that matters to me. So if you want someone who looks at this as a career, you would be short-selling yourself if you were to hire me. "

The shock was as thick as the metaphorical rope I'd bound myself in, the room as quiet as death.

"Well.....we....thank-you for your.....honesty."

The eyes darted anxiously around the room. No one knew how to end this interview. So I said, "Good luck on your search. Mister, great meeting you. Jane, thanks so much. You've both been most gracious." I stood, tossed my messenger bag over my shoulder and started toward the front door. Without turning around I said, "And if you decide you need an artist who just wants a job, call me."

They both laughed. Nervously. I'm sure they needed the release.

As I walked down the street, I felt giddy. This sensation mystified me when I had clearly thrown away my chance of securing a desk job. I examined the root of this sensation and realized that I had spoken the truth. And this was a liberating feeling. I had broken all the standard rules of engagement in an interview scenario and had been completely honest. Everything I said and everything I asked came from an honest place in me. Even when I asked, essentially, whether I would be expected to dress nicely. I really wanted to know if I needed to alter my personal dress code. I really wanted to know whether I needed to invest money in a new look. I needed to consider that piece of the daily grind.

I was absolutely true to myself. I indicated to the interviewers that I felt myself capable of performing the tasks associated with the position. I know in my heart that this is true. At the same time, I did not feel compelled to jump and spin and dance on my heels for their amusement. I inquired about a job. They had a job. It was pretty cut and dry to me. It only became dishonest when tainted with the thought that I must turn this job - which was just a job - into a career. I was simply unwilling to assume that attitude. It made no sense to me to do this. I would work and work hard. But at the end of the day, I would care no more for this job than for the job of stacking cans on shelves.

These realizations made me appreciate my current job at Planet Care. When I clock out at the end of the day, I can release the job and engage in the activities from which I derive a deep-seated satisfaction. I can make things. And there is nothing and no one connected with Planet Care that demands anything otherwise.

I wonder, if I had not been employed and had gone on this job interview, would I have conducted myself in the same manner? Did I insult Jane Do-All and Mister Master by my lack of interest in the standard interview process? Will I ever find a job that I might treat as a career? At the end of the day, none of this matters. We can only answer to our inner knowing in any given moment. The moment of the interview has passed. I am currently in the moment of making as I pound out letters on the keyboard, forming words that coalesce into sentences.

I hope this moment of making, which has been so completely satisfying to me, brings you some degree of enjoyment.

To re-cap:

If you want to succeed in a standard interview scenario, heed the following:

1) If you don't care enough to be on time for the interview, most likely you won't care enough about getting the job.
2) Ordinary clothes get you an ordinary job.
3) Bring a copy of your resume with you.
4) If you choose to be yourself, be willing to accept the accompanying consequences.
5) Commit to your enthusiasm. It doesn't have to be false when you make a conscious decision to pursue it.
6) Act thoroughly interested and excited about everything that the prospective boss tells you.
7) Do not mention your true passion in life. Rather, pretend that this job is of the utmost importance to you.

And for bonus points:

8) Laugh enthusiastically at the prospective boss' jokes, no matter if you understand them or not.