When I was really young I used to have a dream that I was an inventor. I think the trend started there. Oddly, in this dream, I had a big brown beard and travelled the world with my family in a wooden mobile home. Whilst this resemblance to the Manson Family does hark back to my earlier worries of fame for the wrong reasons, at the time my infant brain was far too innocent to ever connect the two things. In fact at the time of such dreams I was still fairly happy and hopeful about the world and the possibility of me becoming a nutter had likely never entered my thought process. How times change, ey. Still, a future of me inventing things and selling them out the back of a caravan that would almost definitely never work in reality seemed like a good one and a realistic aim for any young child to aspire to. I don't remember how, or if, this sequence of dreams ended. It may well be that it was on a continuous loop with me flogging the same creations off to the unsuspecting public every time, and if that's the case I can only apologise for my prior self's lack of imagination. However it seems probable that that was the beginning of this quest for recognition I now find myself on.
I think my next dream future was similar to the one I still cling on to to this day. I always quite liked drawing and painting and doing things that were a bit different. While other kids created finger paintings that merely resembled finger shaped splodges of pain upon completion, I aspired more to create something of enormous cultural significant and put across a message of political importance. I'm in no doubt now that none of my paintings as a small child ever quite achieved this aim, but it was an aim nonetheless and it's always good to have dreams in life. As time went by my artwork expanded beyond seemingly (but deep down, not) meaningless paintings and into more detailed but ultimately less creative productions. Ironically art classes at school tend to have a detrimental affect on ones imagination when it comes to work, with set boundaries constantly being applied to make sure you don't over exert yourself and make something of any actual artistic value.
"Today, class, we will draw this apple. It must look like an apple and be the same as everyone else's because if it's not a small child will DIE."
"Sir, is it alright if my apple is done more as an expressive idea based around the fear that the apple may feel just as it's about to be bitten into?"
"So long as it looks exactly like everyone else's apple, yes, that's fine."
I remember once being set homework to draw our school shirts. I did mine full of dark shading and bold outlines to try and show the connotations of dread and oppression associated with the wearing of said shirt, which whilst pretty gloomy for a 13 year old's mind to conjure up did end up looking half decent. I gave this to my teacher and when I got it back it said "see me" written on it. Odd. Was he going to reward me with praise for my adventurous approach to a seemingly dull task? Was he recommending me to the Tate Modern? No, he was telling me to redo it because it was too dark to be a shirt.
"Shirts don't have this much shadow. They don't have these bold outlines. It looks far too dark to be a shirt. Do it again."
I think his creative depression came from him being called Mr Handcock and getting laughed at all the time because of it. Can't blame him, really.
This motive for creating art work continued throughout my school life and despite it setting no clear career path out for me I always knew it was something I wanted to go on with. I enjoyed it. It's nice to do things you enjoy. Even my major depression that set in during 6th form couldn't put me off such a mission. Sure, it put me off the prospect of living and I wished every day would be my last, but I still quite liked art. But it was during this time that another passion began to form, and that was writing. Again, school never really encourages writing as an expressive thing to do. You write essays, you write in small lined paper books and you write notes down when a teacher talks at you for an hour. You write to remember, not to create. But when I lost the ability to communicate with people in a sociable manner, writing things down was all I really had. The more I did it the more I enjoyed it and if you read this regularly (who am I kidding, no-one does!) you'll know that it's now the main thing I want to do in the world.
Scarily, now, I'm going to have to start thinking about how I intend to do this. With only a matter of months remaining until university life comes to a screeching halt I've got to consider where I want to be this time next year. At the start of this year I'd assumed that would be in an ad agency, working with a beautiful art director who would create images so magical that not only did they sell a product but would eventually lead to us being able to control people's very souls. I would scroll down streams of conscious that combined with the afore mentioned imagery would lead to us being widely known as Gods. There's a slight glitch in that plan, though. I've ended up without an art director and despite what I thought were admiral attempts at drawing it seems I'm not quite man enough to do both sides of the job. Also, rather ironically, I've ended up being quite happy on my own. A prospect that scared me no end at the start of the year has ended up suiting me quite well and I reckon my ideas have grown because of it. Not that that is of any help when thinking about what I want to do next.
Do I go for it alone in the big scary world of placement hunting? I imagine I'll make a few people laugh, they'll say, "We can see potential, but your ads look like a small child has drawn them with wax crayons," (that's not a bad idea...) and I'll end up going freelance, being a pen for hire for anyone that needs me.
"If you need help and you know how to find him, you might just be able to hire the..."
Other options have presented themselves too, with teaching having popped up into my noggin in a rather unexpected manner as of late.
Ultimately I want to have written a book, made a tonne of money and be living it up by a beach in Miami. But these sort of things don't just happen and the road to getting there is making my stomach feel all funny. It's either that or that omelette I undercooked the other night.
I went paragliding once. It was by the far the most enjoyable thing I've ever done, but the constant thought of, "I could die if this goes wrong," lingered over me for a good part of the experience.
This is starting to feel very similar.