Sometimes I wonder if I am cut out for this world. I sit quietly in school board meetings without a thing to say. I am disinterested in the classes that I need to take in order to get my teaching credential. I am bored by bureaucratic or political talk and I have little interest in the professionalism that every one seems to demand from me. Often times I find myself in situations where I say to myself, what the hell am I doing here? The answer is usually- there is nothing else you could do so make the best of it. I am weary of all people who take themselves as seriously as I do- and I know nothing more that I want to do with my life than, read, write, paint , love, sit in the sun and masturbate. Sometimes I wonder if I am cut out for this world.
As a kid I loved to do cut outs. I would cut out pictures of Micheal Jackson, Madonna, Howard Jones, Boris Becker, Ronald Reagan and others and tape them all over the walls of my bedroom. I would position them in strange ways- some standing upside down and others on their backs and sides. My bedroom walls were filled with the multiplicity of conversations between all these various cut outs. I would see Madonna talking to a cut out of Ronald Regan and imagine the conversations that they would have. “Hey Ronny you should loosen up a bit,” Madonna would say and Ronny would reply “like a virgin?” Then Micheal Jackson would get involved and say “hey Ronny don’t tease Madonna..maybe you should just beat it,” and on and on the conversations would go for hours. My parents called me the cut out kid because I would spend entire afternoons locked up in my bedroom making cut outs to put on my wall and at night I would fall asleep to their various interactions. Deep down- even as a kid, I knew I was doing this to create a world of my own, a safer place- since I knew that I would never find my place in the real world.
Now as an adult I try to stay away from doing cut outs. It’s too infectious. Instead it is as if I have become the cut out and my bedroom wall has become the world in which I live. The strange thing is that I can not seem to find a space upon this wall in which I feel like I can fit. Mostly I feel like I am standing in the wrong place or occupying the wrong position- but rarely do I feel as comfortable as the Boris Becker or Sting cut outs upon my wall seemed to look. I long for this sense of comfort and well being- the kind of confident glare that I see in the eyes of my favorite Teachers, Writers, Artists and Musicians. I long to posses that feeling of accomplishment that fills one up with a kind of satiated satisfaction. I keep telling myself that in time I will find my way– but for the time being, when I am stuck in traffic or in boring meetings or loud classrooms- I go through these extreme stages feeling like a cut out who can not find his right place, in this perplexing world.