Life As Performance Art 60

Gifted-shmifted. That's what I have to say these days about my various talents, and I suppose that I do have my few. But, the other day, when I couldn't even assemble a simple standing fan, but had to get help from the staff at the hardware store where I tried to return it...this is telling me something. I remember one of the many choice phrases my mother used to have for me. "He's so smart, he's stupid." Okay, maybe not the warmest or fuzziest thing your own dear momma might say about her darling boy, but my mom, nor my dad, were anything at all like warm and fuzzy. They were from working class and farm families, Scots and German, and pragmatic to the core. I was just the kid they deserved. And they were just the parents that I deserved. As a child I was diagnosed as gifted. I have never been able to live that one down. But give me a simple fan to assemble (well, okay, to cut myself some slack, I did not have the right screwdriver, but the point is, why did I not have the right screwdriver, nor other tools, besides a hammer, in my junk drawer?) even if I have some ability in art, writing and music, none of those same abilities are going to do squat for putting food on the table or paying my rent on time. Well, okay, my art did help for a while. Quite a bit actually, and had I been able to connect with a good gallery at that time in my life, I probably would have said goodbye to day job slavery and be living quite nicely while painting all the time, and likely for the rest of my life. And then I would have changed and morphed into a dreadful art and culture snob, like another famous Canadian artist that I knew years ago (so sue me, Gathie Falk!), and for decades, has not given me so much as the time of day. Having been poor all my life has made me incredibly resourceful. Having had to work for a living at less than glamorous employment has kept me grounded and ordinary, and I think, humble. Working in poorly remunerated health and community care professions has helped me develop and maintain a very strong core of empathy, care and compassion for others. Having to live in social housing for the rest of my productive and likely for all my retired life, while working in a profession as a mental health peer support worker have taught me to live with stigma, while rejecting it and learning that I don't have to own stigma. There is a lot I can do. Unlike some gifted geniuses, I am able to keep my home and my person clean and presentable, I am able to resource good nutritious food, cook and feed myself, and I am able to make and keep (most of them) friends. I don't own my home, can't even manage with a market rental (I live in vancouver, so we cut cut ourselves a little bit of slack here), neither do I own or drive a car. But from my teenage years, knowing what vehicle emissions contribute to atmospheric pollution and global warming, I opted, purely because of my ethical sense, to never own or drive a car. This has also likely placed limitations on my employment and earning opportunities and potential. A sacrifice, yes, but I have learned to live with it, and to still thrive. Even if I work for an ungenerous and stingy employer (make my day, my lovely little bosses!), I have rewarding and fulfilling work. Even if my neighbourhood downtown can be difficult and noisy, I have found creative and healthy ways of coping and adapting. But I still can't assemble anything that comes in a box, not even if my life depended on it. Or, if I had the right tools, maybe I could. I remember how back in the eighties, with no carpentry or building skills, I was able to make a dilapidated farm house in Richmond liveable and attractive, and this I managed with almost no help from others. Out of that house was born a dynamic and very effective ministering, and controversial, Christian community. It didn't last, but that doesn't matter. It did go on for eight years and a lot of people were helped, and I and the people I was living and working with truly grew as human beings. This morning, on less than adequate sleep, I have just wrecked breakfast. It turns out that one of the eggs I was boiling while writing this was cracked and the pot horribly boiled over. I am still going to eat the eggs, with toast, peanut butter and jam, and a slice of cheddar on the side. It is almost 3:30 am, and I am drinking decaf, of course, as I will be soon hunkering down for a nice long nap.