Mind Fields: “Losing a Job: Being Scared Shitless”

note to my readers: I wrote this essay twelve years ago. I just re-discovered it. I should tell you that things have worked out okay.:

What made me decide during my teen years that I was going to devote my life to creating “art”?  Music, poetry, prose, photography: if it was “art” I was going to do it and no one could stop me.  My parents put me in a psychiatric ward for eight weeks.  I emerged no less an artist.  The medications I should have been taking had been hidden in my lower lip and spit out the window, drifting down five stories to land in a sodden mess of other spat-out medications at the back entrance to the hospital.

  I didn’t see any choice in the matter.  I was driven.  I wouldn’t listen to my father’s imprecations to “find yourself a profession and do “art” on the side”. 

What?  Do “art” on the side?  Jeez, what did he think I was?  Some kind of dilettante?  I was going to be immersed in music, writing, etc for my life, every day of my life, 24/7/365/80something.

That’s what I’ve done.  I’ve arranged everything in my life to be an “artist”.

I use these quotation marks because at this stage of my life the words Art, Artist, Creative, etc have been so devalued that I feel like a complete fool.  I can’t explain what I really am.  I’m in late middle age and I’m still doing it. I fit the classic model of the “starving artist”, the impractical beatnik hipster free spirit who lives outside the mainstream and survives as a free lance everything.

I’ve had the perfect job for twenty six years.  It’s a part time janitorial contract, about fifteen hours a week.  When I combine that income with a couple other cleaning jobs, I’m an independent man with a subsistence income.  That frees me to be the artist/musician and writer that I am.  I really don’t know how to do anything else.

I create.  I do the cleaning job on my own time, no one pressures me, it’s physical work and my mind can wander through my artistic universe while I sweep and scrub.

 When the property owner died this perfect job died with him. The new management gave me thirty days notice.  I got the letter yesterday.  The landlord is hiring a slick professional firm of janitorial shysters who hire Latino workers, put them in blue uniforms, pay them minimum wage and pocket the rest.

You know the kind of sickening gut-storm that happens when you find out your lover’s been cheating?  You know that feeling? 

I feel like that.  A nice chunk of income worth $1100 a month has suddenly vanished. It was my largest contract. I don’t know how I’ll pay my rent, care for my wife, keep the internet broadband connected.  I still have some work.  Just a bit.  I’m 64 years old.  My feet are in chronic pain.  I’ve never worked for anyone else.

I’ve had enough experiences in my life to understand that one of the most basic structures of existence is this: death and resurrection.  Getting fired is a death.  I await the new blossoming.

I’ve been going through years of heartbreak.  I’ll be honest.  No one wants to read about my pain; there’s enough pain.  Who needs some obscure writer to dump more pain?

I think I’m a special writer but show me a writer who doesn’t think he or she is special.  Writing is a landscape of self delusion, fantasy, hope burning, guttering, rejection gathering, courage failing.  This is a tough time for writers.  There’s a zillion grandiose twenty five year old English Lit and MFA graduates who want to hit the Great Harry Potter Roulette Wheel.

I’m scared shitless.  I’m old, I have a lot of unmarketable skills, my wife is disabled and my dogs are neurotic as Alaskan Armadillos.  What am I going to do?

Here’s where the leap of faith enters the picture: It Will Come.  I’ve been stuck in the most colossal rut for seven or eight years.  I’ve been comfortable.

Comfort can be deadly to an artist.  I’m going to have to ride it out.  Already, I’ve applied for two writing jobs.  Wouldn’t that be cool, actually being employed writing?  I don’t need to adhere to my strict regime of “my work my work my work.”

I can do other people’s work.  I can do it well.  I’ve done it before.  I was a ghost writer for six years for a celebrity photographer.  My ghost written articles appeared in People Magazine, Teen Beat, National Enquirer, a host of tatty rags.  I got paid by the hour.  My boss was seventy five years old, and he was a tightwad!

I’m going to get less scared as the days pass.  I know this has happened and that it will turn out okay.  If it doesn’t turn out okay, that’s going to be a drag.

What’s the worst that can happen?  I always ask this question when things are rough.  The answer: the worst that can happen is that I can suffer horribly for a long time, intimately observe my mind disintegrating, and then die alone in a ditch.

So, if that’s the worst that can happen, what am I worried about?

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Arthur Rosch is a novelist, musician, photographer and poet. His works are funny, memorable and often compelling. One reviewer said “He’s wicked and feisty, but when he gets you by the guts, he never lets go.” Listeners to his music have compared him to Frank Zappa, Tom Waits, Randy Newman or Mose Allison. These comparisons are flattering but deceptive. Rosch is a stylist, a complete original. His material ranges from sly wit to gripping political commentary.

Arthur was born in the heart of Illinois and grew up in the western suburbs of St. Louis. In his teens he discovered his creative potential while hoping to please a girl. Though she left the scene, Arthur’s creativity stayed behind. In his early twenties he moved to San Francisco and took part in the thriving arts scene. His first literary sale was to Playboy Magazine. The piece went on to receive Playboy’s “Best Story of the Year” award. Arthur also has writing credits in Exquisite Corpse, Shutterbug, eDigital, and Cat Fancy Magazine. He has written five novels, a memoir and a large collection of poetry. His autobiographical novel, Confessions Of An Honest Man won the Honorable Mention award from Writer’s Digest in 2016.

More of his work can be found at www.artrosch.com

Photos at https://500px.com/p/artsdigiphoto?view=photos

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This segment of “Mind Fields” is sponsored by the Roberta Writes blog site, where you can find the poetry, photos, videos, and book reviews by Robbie Cheadle and so much more.