True, I have slacked down on blogging since I came back from Beirut, but not for not wanting. On the contrary, I have been desperately trying to shoo the fog of anxiety and tune down my self-indulgence, but my mind has been stubbornly one-sided.
I would love to rant about the demise of the New Orelanders, the sensationalist headlines of British newspapers ("Tesco Put Porn On My Phone!"), my love of filthy Bethnal Green road slackers and the state of my toes after an unexpected downpour in sandals... But it is the realization that I am now battling against the pearly crop of graduate designers from RCA and StMartins, who are going to steal all job opportunities out there, that has won over. I am not jealous, just resigned. They will be waving those lovely certificates of theirs, and stampeding on my efforts.
But it's OK. I've decided a change of career is in hand anyway. Being a designer is over-rated, and making things pretty for corporate greed is not what I had in mind. Isn't it in moments of utter disillusionment that people have bloomed and turned to the unplanned? I am not a labelled worker. As I said in one of my last-resort applications to a magazine I'd loved to join:
"I can write, design, clean, answer phones, make a delicious cafe mocha, i can illustrate, take amazing photographs, i don't do drugs, but i smoke like a chimney, i cook great Lebanese food, can guzzle white wine, need to poop in solitude, i have designed a whole book about my naked body, and own a bike called Gwen."
(He turned me down: Advetising Sales Executive was still not part of my amazing capabilities.)
To Be Continued...