"Looks like I went from partly-professional to soaking wet in under three minutes!...[nervous giggle]." I was dressed in a too-hip, loosely-swept, oddly-draped red and blue plaid shirt, a lightly-patterned pair of cropped, skin-tight, nude pants, and pointy, snakeskin flats with a chunky ankle strap. After running frantically through the rain with my bright red raincoat and shoes in hand, I had arrived at the Career Symposium. The Woman at the front was dressed in a sad-looking black suit atop a black shirt. The Woman did not take kindly to the joke I made upon materializing before her to receive my Symposium badge. She might as well have been clutching a Poisonous Scepter of Doom within her pointy claws, although this image might flatter her a bit more than intended. And so, after watching The Woman smoothly slide my name tag into the casing that I would later accidentally steal, I pranced along as I felt her laser vision pierce through my backside. I began to skim the perimeter of the third floor as I attempted to penetrate the border that was seven skeptical employees. These narrow-eyed humans proved quite weary of my apparently inappropriate dress. Their eyes slithered from left to right. Rinse and repeat.
I walk into a large, sterile ballroom and take my seat amidst a small and probably-never-growing crowd of suit sporting creatures. They donned, just as The Woman at the front, black suits with black or perhaps white ruffled obscenities for shirts underneath. A "girl" to my left exhibited a pair of round-toed Mary Jane shoes with a flowered belt buckle choking the fat of her feet. I, again, was wearing...not that. My pointy shoes, patterned top, and soaking wet existence were loud enough to shove enough noses in the air for what could be a lifetime. A small Indian man eventually appeared to the side of the stage. The Woman then materializes before us in an untimely manner. Not good, Woman, not good. "And I am here to introduce a very important man. Please do graciously welcome our wonderful speaker for the evening, Sir Blah Blah." Now, I must keep this name as Sir Blah Blah for two reasons. One: this is a fantastic name, but no, he is not a knight. Two: If anyone were to read this and see his actual name, I might be brutally slain by The Woman; she has her ways. Plus, her nails were uncomfortably long. Anyways. The Woman then proceeds to trip backward upon exiting the stage that Sir Blah Blah decides not to use. "My voice is quite enough," says the Sir. Six crickets appear, mate, and exponentially multiply in number. Actually, that was just the increasing sound of awkward I felt as this man began to futz with a poorly constructed powerpoint. Swivel Swivel. I take a gander to my left and right to find two things. One: a balding man who, wait, why are you here? And two: a meek, mousey graduate student who apparently thought a hiking backpack would bring out the boring in her eyes. Lights fail to dim, and here we go.
Now, let's get some background on our dearest Sir. This man, about five and a half feet tall, walks in at a pace that must be too slow for the age that he appears to be. His back has a developing hump that is masked only slightly by his oversized jacket. A man of class and creativity, you say? He stands up to reveal a blue pinstripe shirt worn beneath a green and orange speckled tie. School spirit? Absolutely. Mismatched? Probably. He reaches his wrinkled paws toward his necktie to loosen the portion that is pinching his neck fat. His hair is thinning and a combover does it little justice. This is a man who worked at Fed-Ex for years developing all sorts of "creative" modes of operation for the company. Needless to say, he was both behind the scenes and very much in front of them. The man worked with brown boxes and sticky labels. He travels around the world giving talks about how to become creative and how you can then go on to be like him...in order to travel around the world...while telling other people how to become creative...all courtesy of the Sir himself. After casting a slew of fancy brand names in our general direction and asking us to identify fancy monuments from places he visited all over the world...is that an ice cream cone? Suddenly I see over thirty businesspeople clutching ice cream cones and roasting on revolving spears. They are cackling in excitement about their monthly outing from the office. Someone even told me they got to brush their teeth! Someone else told me they would rather get the last ice cream cone than use this break to empty their bowels and I...*bang.* I raise my head up in baffling confusion. Did I actually just fall asleep? Not possible. I remember being slouched back but I do like to keep up a few professional appearances. After all, I did tape my eyelids back in preparation for this riveting escapade. It seems that I have just pulled a Walter Mitty and that I fantasize about roasting haughty businesspeople as they devour sweets. Good.
As I gently awaken myself and remove the metaphorical drool of boredom that departed from my mouth, Sir Blah Blah opened his mouth to speak. Sir Blah Blah is Indian. He speaks in a thick, acquiescent accent that will convince one of absolutely nothing. He begins his talk with "this talk is on how one can unleash one's creativity with one's self within one's mental temple." Oh boy. Wait a minute-this goofy goober was about to tell me how to be creative? As I sat there with my "Studio Art" badge plastered to my bosom, my mind began to wander. I did sign up for this talk, even if it was just to get great blog material. Rude. ...*Shakes herself awake*...The four criteria that must be met to unlock the golden chest of creativity, oh boy. This is it. My mind is about to be blown and subsequently re-synthesize into golden platelets of chocolate knowledge. And who doesn't like both of those things? One: More dots. More dots? How eloquently you have phrased this golden pellet, Sir Blah Blah. Apparently this has something to do with the desire to pry and well, think more. You know what, I really was planning on thinking less so, thank goodness I arrived before His Graciousness on this monsoony day. Two: Imagination. Doesn't that mildly coincide with step one? Are they even steps?? Must I perform these feats in order?? Explain, Sir Blah Blah, explain!! Step three: create nominal stress. This one really got me going. According to our Graciousness, this has to do with creating an ideal amount of stress in combination with a state of relaxation in order to "become creative." It's something like the top achievement in meditation or...me successfully slaughtering someone's ass in a sort of silent Kung Fu. Now, this is my problem with this artificially created "nominal stress." Part one: if one is truly creative, they are usually somewhat deranged. My mind goes as far as the moon and is as cratered as just that. When I think of ideas, I bolt up in the middle of the night, sweating, after a long night of painful thought. There is no fra-la-la and a warm shower, not too hot as to sear my precious dermis. Part two: if my mind is clear, that means there are no ideas. The very reason I went to this meeting was to clutter my mind with ideas that could mix with ones I got from a trip to Burger King as a gluten-intolerant fool last night. Sir Blah Blah proceeds to speak of those "a-ha" moments one has in the shower. I mumble to myself, "doesn't freakin' happen to me." Uh oh.
Sir Blah Blah takes a step in my direction, nods his pointed noise toward my face, and swivels his neck. I really should internalize my reactions more frequently. "You do look like a creative individual," says the Sir. "Do, tell me what you have just said. It says here that your major is...studio art?" He gazes toward me as though looking over spectacles grazing the tip of his pointed schnoz. *Gasps from the crowd of somber business aliens.*
If this was a movie, I would have just made that a cliffhanger. Unfortunately for me, the only sense of cliffhanger I can provide is the one where I push "enter" and then "spacebar" enough times to form what would have been a "tab" anywhere but on my Blogger website. And...continue. Upon craning my remorseful neck in his general direction, I opened my mouth to speak. "Well..." I look around to see that the back three rows of people actually stood up to see what sort of mongrel was producing words. "It's just that...I seem to create ideas in times when my mind is sort of distracted. Oddly enough, thinking about how I should be thinking actually makes my thinking time less...thinkful." Based on sky-high eyebrows, it seemed that "thinkful" was not a proper word of choice. "Self-induced tension also doesn't really work for me. If I'm in an incredibly boring class, my mind spews out ideas for just about everything...which I guess could be a problem if being creative is my job, because, you know, I can't do boring things just to come up with cool things for the rest of my life. That's just wrong, yeah? But also, when I'm at my looniest and feel the crazy coming on, I don't stop it. I embrace it. This is only something I've learned to do recently, but it is device that I will employ for a lifetime." Now, let's back up a little. This man came to my university to talk to a bunch of gray-minded people about how to get in on what he thought was "his little secret." Then, this soaking wet excuse for a partly-professional woman is giving her opinion on his miniature book (it actually is miniature; I'll go into detail about that fantastic bit later)? After seeing the ever-emotive and eloquent Malcolm Gladwell speak, I was barely taken by his response. "You see," says the Sir, "I myself never used to be creative. Then, I began to work for Procter and Gamble and..." *snooze.*
After being individually lectured by this boring blob of a man, I shot my head to the left and right, searching frantically for a clock. This talk was only supposed to go on for 45 minutes, 30 of which were taken by him telling us what places he had traveled to and why he thought he was so awesome. But, for some reason that I am still unable to define, these fifteen minutes must have been at least another 40. My mind decided to cringe in repudiation of his reiteration of his four steps to creative wisdom. I catch another glimpse of a roasting businesswoman to my immediate left, the meek hiker to my right. It was get-er-done time at the slaughterhouse and I just punched in my card. This time, our Good Sir was enjoying a nice marshmallow and The Woman kebab, The Woman was laughing gleefully, as she was finally able to partake in his golden stream of creativity.
Upon terminating his speech, Sir Blah Blah told us that we would each be receiving a copy of his book. His book, just as our attention spans, had diminished in size. He held it next to a regularly sized book of his saying, "this one didn't quite sell out." Right, because making your book smaller will win you a following of both large and small-handed people alike. That's like, double, you know? And, if you count all the left-handed people who can now read his Hebrew and Chinese versions, well, let's consider this World Domination. As I walk out of the meeting, I knead the moisture out of my hair and sling my drenched, bright red backpack across my rear side. I walk into the bathroom, peel off my pants, slink into some gym shorts, and begin to roll my pants up sushi-style into a wad of paper towels. Wash my hands, smear the makeup from my face, good to go. Look to the left, nod in approval to the talking marshmallow kebab as she scornfully smirks in my detestable direction. And goodbye to that piglet.
I walk into a large, sterile ballroom and take my seat amidst a small and probably-never-growing crowd of suit sporting creatures. They donned, just as The Woman at the front, black suits with black or perhaps white ruffled obscenities for shirts underneath. A "girl" to my left exhibited a pair of round-toed Mary Jane shoes with a flowered belt buckle choking the fat of her feet. I, again, was wearing...not that. My pointy shoes, patterned top, and soaking wet existence were loud enough to shove enough noses in the air for what could be a lifetime. A small Indian man eventually appeared to the side of the stage. The Woman then materializes before us in an untimely manner. Not good, Woman, not good. "And I am here to introduce a very important man. Please do graciously welcome our wonderful speaker for the evening, Sir Blah Blah." Now, I must keep this name as Sir Blah Blah for two reasons. One: this is a fantastic name, but no, he is not a knight. Two: If anyone were to read this and see his actual name, I might be brutally slain by The Woman; she has her ways. Plus, her nails were uncomfortably long. Anyways. The Woman then proceeds to trip backward upon exiting the stage that Sir Blah Blah decides not to use. "My voice is quite enough," says the Sir. Six crickets appear, mate, and exponentially multiply in number. Actually, that was just the increasing sound of awkward I felt as this man began to futz with a poorly constructed powerpoint. Swivel Swivel. I take a gander to my left and right to find two things. One: a balding man who, wait, why are you here? And two: a meek, mousey graduate student who apparently thought a hiking backpack would bring out the boring in her eyes. Lights fail to dim, and here we go.
Now, let's get some background on our dearest Sir. This man, about five and a half feet tall, walks in at a pace that must be too slow for the age that he appears to be. His back has a developing hump that is masked only slightly by his oversized jacket. A man of class and creativity, you say? He stands up to reveal a blue pinstripe shirt worn beneath a green and orange speckled tie. School spirit? Absolutely. Mismatched? Probably. He reaches his wrinkled paws toward his necktie to loosen the portion that is pinching his neck fat. His hair is thinning and a combover does it little justice. This is a man who worked at Fed-Ex for years developing all sorts of "creative" modes of operation for the company. Needless to say, he was both behind the scenes and very much in front of them. The man worked with brown boxes and sticky labels. He travels around the world giving talks about how to become creative and how you can then go on to be like him...in order to travel around the world...while telling other people how to become creative...all courtesy of the Sir himself. After casting a slew of fancy brand names in our general direction and asking us to identify fancy monuments from places he visited all over the world...is that an ice cream cone? Suddenly I see over thirty businesspeople clutching ice cream cones and roasting on revolving spears. They are cackling in excitement about their monthly outing from the office. Someone even told me they got to brush their teeth! Someone else told me they would rather get the last ice cream cone than use this break to empty their bowels and I...*bang.* I raise my head up in baffling confusion. Did I actually just fall asleep? Not possible. I remember being slouched back but I do like to keep up a few professional appearances. After all, I did tape my eyelids back in preparation for this riveting escapade. It seems that I have just pulled a Walter Mitty and that I fantasize about roasting haughty businesspeople as they devour sweets. Good.
As I gently awaken myself and remove the metaphorical drool of boredom that departed from my mouth, Sir Blah Blah opened his mouth to speak. Sir Blah Blah is Indian. He speaks in a thick, acquiescent accent that will convince one of absolutely nothing. He begins his talk with "this talk is on how one can unleash one's creativity with one's self within one's mental temple." Oh boy. Wait a minute-this goofy goober was about to tell me how to be creative? As I sat there with my "Studio Art" badge plastered to my bosom, my mind began to wander. I did sign up for this talk, even if it was just to get great blog material. Rude. ...*Shakes herself awake*...The four criteria that must be met to unlock the golden chest of creativity, oh boy. This is it. My mind is about to be blown and subsequently re-synthesize into golden platelets of chocolate knowledge. And who doesn't like both of those things? One: More dots. More dots? How eloquently you have phrased this golden pellet, Sir Blah Blah. Apparently this has something to do with the desire to pry and well, think more. You know what, I really was planning on thinking less so, thank goodness I arrived before His Graciousness on this monsoony day. Two: Imagination. Doesn't that mildly coincide with step one? Are they even steps?? Must I perform these feats in order?? Explain, Sir Blah Blah, explain!! Step three: create nominal stress. This one really got me going. According to our Graciousness, this has to do with creating an ideal amount of stress in combination with a state of relaxation in order to "become creative." It's something like the top achievement in meditation or...me successfully slaughtering someone's ass in a sort of silent Kung Fu. Now, this is my problem with this artificially created "nominal stress." Part one: if one is truly creative, they are usually somewhat deranged. My mind goes as far as the moon and is as cratered as just that. When I think of ideas, I bolt up in the middle of the night, sweating, after a long night of painful thought. There is no fra-la-la and a warm shower, not too hot as to sear my precious dermis. Part two: if my mind is clear, that means there are no ideas. The very reason I went to this meeting was to clutter my mind with ideas that could mix with ones I got from a trip to Burger King as a gluten-intolerant fool last night. Sir Blah Blah proceeds to speak of those "a-ha" moments one has in the shower. I mumble to myself, "doesn't freakin' happen to me." Uh oh.
Sir Blah Blah takes a step in my direction, nods his pointed noise toward my face, and swivels his neck. I really should internalize my reactions more frequently. "You do look like a creative individual," says the Sir. "Do, tell me what you have just said. It says here that your major is...studio art?" He gazes toward me as though looking over spectacles grazing the tip of his pointed schnoz. *Gasps from the crowd of somber business aliens.*
If this was a movie, I would have just made that a cliffhanger. Unfortunately for me, the only sense of cliffhanger I can provide is the one where I push "enter" and then "spacebar" enough times to form what would have been a "tab" anywhere but on my Blogger website. And...continue. Upon craning my remorseful neck in his general direction, I opened my mouth to speak. "Well..." I look around to see that the back three rows of people actually stood up to see what sort of mongrel was producing words. "It's just that...I seem to create ideas in times when my mind is sort of distracted. Oddly enough, thinking about how I should be thinking actually makes my thinking time less...thinkful." Based on sky-high eyebrows, it seemed that "thinkful" was not a proper word of choice. "Self-induced tension also doesn't really work for me. If I'm in an incredibly boring class, my mind spews out ideas for just about everything...which I guess could be a problem if being creative is my job, because, you know, I can't do boring things just to come up with cool things for the rest of my life. That's just wrong, yeah? But also, when I'm at my looniest and feel the crazy coming on, I don't stop it. I embrace it. This is only something I've learned to do recently, but it is device that I will employ for a lifetime." Now, let's back up a little. This man came to my university to talk to a bunch of gray-minded people about how to get in on what he thought was "his little secret." Then, this soaking wet excuse for a partly-professional woman is giving her opinion on his miniature book (it actually is miniature; I'll go into detail about that fantastic bit later)? After seeing the ever-emotive and eloquent Malcolm Gladwell speak, I was barely taken by his response. "You see," says the Sir, "I myself never used to be creative. Then, I began to work for Procter and Gamble and..." *snooze.*
After being individually lectured by this boring blob of a man, I shot my head to the left and right, searching frantically for a clock. This talk was only supposed to go on for 45 minutes, 30 of which were taken by him telling us what places he had traveled to and why he thought he was so awesome. But, for some reason that I am still unable to define, these fifteen minutes must have been at least another 40. My mind decided to cringe in repudiation of his reiteration of his four steps to creative wisdom. I catch another glimpse of a roasting businesswoman to my immediate left, the meek hiker to my right. It was get-er-done time at the slaughterhouse and I just punched in my card. This time, our Good Sir was enjoying a nice marshmallow and The Woman kebab, The Woman was laughing gleefully, as she was finally able to partake in his golden stream of creativity.
Upon terminating his speech, Sir Blah Blah told us that we would each be receiving a copy of his book. His book, just as our attention spans, had diminished in size. He held it next to a regularly sized book of his saying, "this one didn't quite sell out." Right, because making your book smaller will win you a following of both large and small-handed people alike. That's like, double, you know? And, if you count all the left-handed people who can now read his Hebrew and Chinese versions, well, let's consider this World Domination. As I walk out of the meeting, I knead the moisture out of my hair and sling my drenched, bright red backpack across my rear side. I walk into the bathroom, peel off my pants, slink into some gym shorts, and begin to roll my pants up sushi-style into a wad of paper towels. Wash my hands, smear the makeup from my face, good to go. Look to the left, nod in approval to the talking marshmallow kebab as she scornfully smirks in my detestable direction. And goodbye to that piglet.
