Even though there’s no way I’ll ever know, I still wonder to what extent being an only child made me so… let’s say independent. Autonomous? Hmm… Self-reliant? I’m getting closer. It’s probably not that crucial — not as much as my early reality, which was to be the only child not only in my family but in the entire area, with our house the only four-season house at the end of an unpaved country road with no traffic, with a large dog and parents who allowed me to wander — far and every day. I think I developed my sense of self without realizing life implies interactions with other members of the same species (in any case that’s where most of my challenges lie, and it was difficult for me as a child to deal with groups… Huh: sometimes it still is!). The result is that I’m extremely lucky to live at a time where self-employment is a growing trend*: I’d probably have ended up self-employed eventually otherwise, but it would have been such a fight! So all at once I feel disconnected from many trends (let’s be honest: I feel old and archaic) AND I fit right in. I swear, paradox should be my middle name.

Not having office monkeys (see, there’s no way I could resist calling them that!) also means not putting anyone else at risk. Okay, so I don’t consider my work and life are “at risk”, but I just wouldn’t enjoy being responsible for someone’s livelihood. It would stress me out. I guess that’s my comfort zone: self-employment is not a problem, but employing others would be too much. So I guess I’m a micro-entrepreneur at heart. ;-P

*40% increase in 20 years; over 550,000 self-employed persons in Québec in 2007 (Source in French).

I love translation. I love words and languages, and I’ve never had a job/occupation that made me happier, no doubt about it. So will I be translating until I stop working? Maybe. Maybe not. Y’see I’m not attached to my career. It can morph as I do and I’ll go with it. In twenty years? No clue! I could be selling cupcakes (or whatever’s the rage then), I could operate a plant nursery, I could own a café (with art on the walls and books in every corner!). All of these would fulfill me, and there’s more! Translating is what I do now, what works for me now. But I’m open to what life will bring, and if I stop translating I don’t think I’ll look back with regret (if I did, I’d simply make a U-turn!).

Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I didn’t study in my field? I didn’t spend years preparing for this (well, yes I did, but not in a consciously focused way), I didn’t invest years of my life, dedicated to that one purpose. (Although I was pretty dedicated when I started law school; three years later I’d established it wasn’t for me and nothing anyone could have done (some did try!) could have turned me into a lawyer. No regret there either.) Perhaps it has more to do with curiosity, then. I like to explore as much as I can, and if I like what I find out, I invariably want to know more. I’d need many lifetimes to explore all I wish I could. Jack of all trades? I don’t see that as being a bad thing. I’d much rather dabble in several domains than harden on the spot where I stand.

The paradox seemingly lies in the fact that I love what I do but could give it up easily for almost anything else if it came along/drew me in. But I guess there actually is no paradox: what matters most for me professionally, at the core, is to be my own boss and make my own rules. Notice I didn’t say I’d be happy as a nursery employee or a café cook: as long as I’m captain of the ship, I’ll be happy. Huh. Who knew I was an entrepreneur at heart?

Okay, let’s throw some random examples so I don’t start populating this here blog with only vagueness. I need space in my life to be creative. Oh, I am, kind of, but I mean that I’m starting to long for way more space/time. So I start to think in an abstract way. Well, ideally, it would all go into photography (and here insert an ongoing sub-rant about people not taking time to appreciate photography, about photographers who somehow now think it’s now normal to retouch (process, they say) images without mentioning it (whereas I can’t shake a strong feeling is dishonesty is tied to the process (here insert that I feel older than a dinosaur)) and those photographers’ public not being aware, but also not caring one bit). That’s been my most important passion for years. Yeah. Well. And do what with it? (Exhibits? Time and money, lots of effort; so what else? Commercial photo? Not quite my style!) And how (very technically) exactly? I’ve reached the limits of my little camera, I’m at the point where I need a DSLR. Little problem here is we bought a house last year and so I don’t have the right kind of disposable income. Next option then (because I told you, I went through adulthood 101, I know when I have to stop banging my head against one wall and move on to the next!).

Next option would be writing fiction. I can do that and I know it. It scares the hell out of me. Last time I wrote lengthy fiction I became a monster (for the entire time it took me to write). Oh well, I was young, things could be different now (though now as then I find I’m unable to write in ten-minute increments - I need time reserved for it). Last time, my publisher just basically dropped me. He didn’t do his job at all, and he was an unprofessional prick about it (google it - I’m not saying anything new here, and about that man (if everyone out there let go of their fear), so much would be said, and very little of it good!). He used me without a care. That too would be different now. But my name is known. Has been, rather. Previous life, fells like. Well it was in a previous life - I was a frikkin teen. Yeah, well… some people are still angry enough to try and bully me (anonymously, of course, check out the balls on that guy!) online. Brafuckingvo. Thing is, it does hurt. Even after I filed a complaint (the guy probably had no clue his IP revealed up to the street he lives on!). I’m sorry to sound so normal, but yeah, it hurts to be called names and told to curl up and die, even from someone who clearly has no grasp on the issue, can’t write, and is generally expected not to deal with the consequences (hoping I’m wrong and my complaint goes somewhere). It’s painful to realize some humans are just stupid enough not to realize there’s an actual human being with feelings at the other end - or not to care. They think they know something about me, but they stay in the shadows. Hell (or as close as I can get to it: it’s like getting my own personal news-site comments by email! No wonder journalists can’t “get” blogs when all they see is those moronic/violent/ignorant comments!). Writing for me opens a can of worms every time. A pen name? Right. Try to convince your publisher that’s a good idea, then we’ll talk.

Insecurity. I never had so much of it before I became self-employed. Yet at the same time I’m the most empowered I’ve ever been. Paradox, you say? It’s not even about money (though the economic crisis finally caught up with me recently). It’s got more to do with respect. With a good job being evaluated as such and (perhaps not praise but) thanks remitted (granted I take every cheque as a big thank you!) when due. Sometimes it even has to do with looking around and realizing there are things I do better than a lot of people who also call themselves professionals… but there are few people left who can determine that. Language. Sometimes I wonder why I’d write when it seems more and more obvious to me that people (globally and not individually) are losing the ability to distinguish between good and bad (grammar, spelling, etc.) and to read beyond (no I won’t say 140 characters, I love Twitter!) a few lines (says she in the midst of an over-long post…). I’m also painfully aware that if I did write, my “books” would eventually come out in formats I don’t understand or care for (reading a book on anything but paper is not something that interests me in the least). At some point I start to wonder what the point is. Whether I actually have the ego that makes writing necessary/bearable. I guess not. (But then I’d argue we need more writers who don’t have that kind of ego, so…) It’s a matter of worth for its own sake. But does one create worth if one is alone in even assessing the issue?

Relationships. They’re a source of insecurity (and of many good things too). I talk too much. I say too much. I do make an effort to listen better (I’m quite hard on myself and when I find a gaping flaw I pounce - and I found one in my listening skills), but afterward I feel like I haven’t. Not good enough. Huh. It’s the return of the little evil voice. I defeated it at the end of adulthood 101, and I guess now I have to defeat the 201-level evil little voice (not looking forward to 301, frankly).

After over eight months in our new home in the country, both Herb and I crashed. Not hard, I’d say, but… For over eight years we’d lived in the city and had to fight off attacks. OK, I’ll qualify that, because it’s not like we were home-heist victims kept in a humid basement all these years! Let’s just say there were those who actively tried to sabotage our relationship, our happiness or both. There were those who did it unwittingly too. Even some who did it unwillingly! There were job losses, three surgeries in three years, moves, and basically a lot of “action” (cough, cough). It never affected us as a couple, we never turned on one another. Now? We’re crashing. We’re at the point where we have to admit we don’t have to fight off any “attacks”. We have to learn to adapt to our new way of life, which is precisely the one we dreamed of for so long (and once a dream comes through, at first it feels like walking on clouds, but then you realize… okay, so now we have what we always wanted… now what?). Of course it’s good! But it’s a major shift in how we got used to reacting. We now have to get back to being and acting instead of protecting, defending and reacting (it feels and looks like a minor case of post-traumatic shock, if such a thing is remotely possible). We can - and must - shed years of accumulated crap. Now shedding it is good - it’s the identifying process that comes first that’s more of a drag. Realizing you carry resentment you never imagined was there. And guess what? To let go you’ll need to investigate and pick at the scab. Pick pick pick. I realize some of the scabs were hiding healed surfaces (phew!). It’s the rest that’s a bother! Adulthood 201 is not easy, I’ze tell you! And that’s all there is to it right now. No drama, nothing infinitely good or bad. Just… sorting through an awful lot. Shedding. Molting. And while I was writing it got dark and now I’ll put on my evening life thank you. (No, really: thank you. If you made it this far you’re either really bored or a really good friend! It’s okay even if you’re just bored: I don’t expect to write something every couple of months and have the universe celebrate the fact, lol!)

So here’s my question… Is it possible to have a moving, intermittent, huge blind spot? Or is this an issue to pick with the minute men?

I guess even though I feel it as “getting older” it has more to do with being removed from situations and knowing it (and perhaps seeing others don’t quite realize it), being me and not you or them and yet knwoing that each me has its own reality. What makes me think it’s age-related is that I feel like an elder tsk-tsking in the background, shaking my head quietly (I’m hoping to add a gentle smile to that image shortly) at other humans (I’m tempted to call them younger, but here age has no relevance) who don’t quite seem to realize they don’t know more than other humans in the same situation, who think that for the sake of ranting and being funny they can pretend and seem like (and perhaps believe) they have the answers that everybody else should have (I’ve been and still am guilty of that too, so I’m not really looking down on anyone here!), not realizing or perhaps not taking the time to think that another’s answer will be just as valid. (In a related vein, I’m also fed up with pseudo-intellectual humour that consists of name dropping and irony/sarcasm to belittle people or things that can’t/won’t answer in the same way — bottom line, that’s petty and easy, even if it makes for pretty magazines. We’re not growing or learning from it, we’re just gazing at our navel and finding it amazing. Huh.)
The older I get, the clearer it is to me just how much I don’t know (moving to the country helps in that regard, as you quietly and suddenly realize you. know. nothing.). It’s also obvious that I’m not so unique that *I* have the answers (yet I have plenty) or am living something no one else has experienced (I’ll be blunt here: you’re not that unique either. Even if you’re living through hell, others have been through it before, and you can get out too; please ask around instead of wallowing in your misery). I’m losing patience with those who are full enough of themselves (perhaps to hide their personal void and fears, I don’t know!) that they think it’s okay to claim to *know* or to tell others “how this should work” (where “this” can be anything, from Twitter to space travel). My losing patience is in itself an admission of guilt and a sign that the process is in full force (and I’m hoping to find peace of mind at the end, so it’s a tall order). The trap lies in my first reaction, which is often along the (very mature) lines of fuck you all (not quite a Tweet I should write, I know that much!). It doesn’t help me one bit, since one trend I notice is running to what’s most superficial, and a blunt reaction like mine is just that — or seems to be (whereas of course this being *my* fuck you all, I could discourse for hours on how deep and profoundly felt it is!). I need to learn to shrug… and mean it. (I’m aware of how this closely resembles the christian “grant me the strength to accept what I cannot change”, but that’s almost okay — I don’t refuse religion for its morals and principles, but for what it is and represents. And I’m not sure I want to accept it so much as learn to live with it constructively.)

What an unclear post on a semi-abandoned blog, huh? Well, it’s all about the process, and I’m going through the first steps. Hopefully thinks will soon be less fuzzy and I can articulate better where this is leading me and how. Meanwhile, I’m going to start to let go of shit. Perhaps one occurrence a day? That’d be a good start.

(Yeah I know I’ve been overly quiet here. Sorry about that. My other gig is taking up a lot of time, but I’m not giving up on this wee blog. See, I have plenty to say in ENglish, and plenty that’s not related to my countryside project! Hang on!)

In forty-eight hours, we’ll no longer be city dwellers, apartment renters or even cat-lovers-only. We’ll have our Tango the-black-lab with us, and we’ll truly start the rest of our lives together. A life with all our senses filled with glory. Birds and frogs, wild kitties, cows, lakes, streams and rivers, real raw milk, actual not-cut flowers, camp fires, lots and lots to do but lots to see, hear, feel, touch, build… I guess it can be seen as quite an adventure, but for us it simply feels right. *Finally*, we think. I’ve been getting these bursts of happiness recently, when it hits me: it’s true. We’re doing it. Together. Away. Toward where we belong and who we always wanted to be.

It won’t be only roses, we know. Already we’ve discovered that if we miss a package delivery, the nearest post office where we have to pick it up is far. Quite far. I’m not talking “take delivery of your new modem two villages from yours” here, but serious mileage (kilometrage?). Proximity is something we have to redefine, with one single shop in the village and one single restaurant (forget delivery). Those aren’t problems, simply things we need to redefine, but when I think about it, we won’t have any trouble. I mean… we got used to living here, among the fucked-up and the poor-at-soul, and learned to consider that “normal” and “safe enough”, so…

Well that’s it. I’m signing off for a few days. Much to do, and much, much joy to do it in! Peace, people.