Imbued with Dull Color...

And my life at this point is as bizarre as this book. Or, I should say this book the movie was based upon. I am currently amazed at how differently the soundtrack affects me when I play it solo, rather than with the accompanying DVD.

This is 2007 revisited. 2 am and I am up, wandering in my head, lost, scared and not sure where to turn. Another useless day, this time (again) at the hands of the city. Workforce1 is supposed to be helping those who lost their jobs since Giuli...er, BLOOMBERG (they are the same piece of shit to me) has decided to keep the center open later since he cares about...well, getting elected again. Which, if anyone has any sense, will NOT happen again. I waited 3.5 hours on an orientation, only to be told 30 minutes that there was no way 2 intake professionals (translation: people lazier than lazy) could see me. The only reason I registered is to get the free computer classes they offered. The woman there asked me a "pacific" question. Um, do you mean S P E C I F I C ? How do these idiots get jobs? I have to call and beg tomorrow...um, THIS morning. Hey, I'm already up.

I've been job hunting since 2005. With a forty-nine day break when His Name We Abuse hired/dumped me. This is the longest search I've ever had trying to fit in since, well, EVER. My only joy today was meeting up with one of Virgin's previous managers, a love named Eric, who was completely cool and totally knowledgable about music, media, you name it. He was one of the best in World Music. If he was my manager? I would never have been unceremoniously gotten rid of. So, we both laughed at our unemployment situation. Then, at Workforce, I ran into my old figure skating teacher, which truly broke my heart.

Neither one of us is skating anymore. Me? Fibromyalgia and a lack of money. Him? A series of mild strokes and a degenerative spinal condition. Why, oh why, do the greatest 'movers' I've known eventually lose their mobility. He was my Balanchine. And Balanchine wasted away of Jakob-Cruetzfeld's disease until he passed on April 30, 1983. My guy, a funny little Chinese man, was trained by Paul Toomey, a cohort of John Curry's, who spent many years on tour with various shows before he died of AIDS in 1987 or so. I was his best student. I knew that, but today he finally said it. "You are the most resourceful person I know. You're a fighter and have discipline. You haven't changed one bit." My last lesson with him was December 2, 2001. He's going to end up in a wheelchair. And we used to practice pair skating moves and fly around. How still we've become. He's a home health aide now since no one hires computer techs when you're 60. He asked me if I still follow skating, and of course I answered, "Obsessively." It's part of my sanity. Although I didn't tape World's this year due to Johnny Weir's absence, I watched pieces and looked at an entirely younger generation who wouldn't know Toomey, Curry, or Cranston.

I am almost 40 and I haven't a thing to show for it. My intelligence counts for nothing since I've never been able to tolerate asskissing, politics, or games. I could be shrewd if I knew these things, but instead I come across as mean. Bitter, even. I so want to get out of debt and eventually work for myself. A pet store, candles, perfume, or having my own students read to me what I've taught them. One of these things or all of these things would be so damn satisfying. I am such a different kettle of fish that I know for certain I don't fit in anywhere. I'm not changing, I am CHANGED. And I can't go back.

It's only the money that I want. I realize now that my future is going to be my own, my own way, my own concept and I will have to play the game that I hate so much. I am too damn honest and that is a liability. I also cannot lie to myself, something these current narcissists who've ruined the economy seem to relish.

I must blog more. I have to say it does clear my head. Even if I get no sleep.