For most of my life, I’ve tried to find a moniker for me that would admirably serve as my “type.” You know the kind of types I’m talking about, a single descriptor like outdoorsy, an egghead, a worthless drunk.
A few years ago, people decided that I was a geek. I slowly warmed to the suggestion and stopped fighting it. But still, it really didn’t describe me fully, in part because I know what a real geek is.
You see, my brother Jon used to use the term in the 1970s, long before it took on its current meaning. He was enthralled by the sideshow in circuses, well the circus in general. I still remember that he had calling cards printed that said:
Jon Zerr
Roustabout, Bon Vivant & Part-time Carnival Barker
I’m sure some of the people who got his card didn’t get his sense of humor as well, or the fact that he would often leave then with a piece of sage advice, “Death seeks all geeks.” I still laugh about it all, and have continued to be a Bon Vivant myself, at least when I am asked to write a bio about me.
So, back to the circus. As you may or may not know, a geek is a “a carnival performer who performs sensationally morbid or disgusting acts, such as biting off the head of a live chicken.”
Well, that’s definitely not me. I’ve never even held a live chicken. They freak me out. Now, I suppose I could latch onto this definition: “A person who has excessive enthusiasm for and some expertise about a specialized subject or activity.” But I only know a little about a lot, not a lot about a little.
The last definition of a geek is “a peculiar person, especially one who is perceived to be overly intellectual, unfashionable, or socially awkward.”
Hmm, coming close. Overly intellectual, yes. Unfashionable, definitely. Socially awkward, sometimes. I can also be the bell of the ball, if it amuses me.
Still, it leaves something to be desired. Quite frankly, I would rather just bite off the head of a passing chicken than live with this limited, almost too-fashionable term.
As I rode in on the bus this morning, I started to really think about this label people had given me. I guess that’s what happens when you ride the Crazy Bus. People on the ‘E’ Line come from all walks for life, from the “doped out guy” sleeping next to me to the bearded “hipsters” who are making their way into Amazon for another long day of punching code, all the while dreaming of women they will never get, largely because their beard looks like it needs its own zip code.
These are geeks. Every level imaginable. They all stand on the bus, even though there are seats, and peer vacuously into their hypnotic phone boxes. They are in a trance, not even using the commute to take a break from their work world and peer out into the real world for a change. I guess it’s just too scary.
I am definitely not one of those geeks. As I thought longer and harder, I remembered what one of my friends at work said to me earlier in the week. He was poking fun of me because I always have my hands in one thing or another. “Do you have time for me sometime this week? he asked. “I know you have a performing troupe, are a published author, write a weekly column, make art out of recyclables, play in a band and still find time to work for the state… what else do you do?”
“Paint,” I said. “But only a couple of times. I can’t find enough time in the day to get better at it.”
And then it hit me, right there on the bus. I felt like smacking my forehead with my open hand. I’m not a geek. I’m a creative.
Sure, that encompasses some geek. I think every creative could lay claim to some level of geekdom, whether it’s their crazy understanding of Kandinsky or their never quite complete collection of Star Wars figures.
Creativity demands a lot of play space. It’s not like being an accountant where you want all the numbers to add up nicely in the end. We don’t want anything to add up. We want the chaos that comes with the creativity we are born with. It’s a gift from God that has to be exercised regularly, like the thoroughbred horse that would die if it weren’t allowed to run free.
Sure, people have said that I’m very creative in the past. But I didn’t really own it. I guess that in comes respects, I wasn’t ready for it. I didn’t feel I was worthy of such a weighty moniker.
I just didn’t want to own it, just like I couldn’t own the word geek. Yes, there are many who love that label and who live it honestly and with gusto. But it’s not me, and for a long time, I couldn’t wrap my arm around being a creative either.
For me, my various passions and pursuits and my horrible curiosity that causes me to know an awful lot about a little, are merely blotches of paint on a palette. They are all there, separate in their own right, but ready at a moment’s notice to be blended and mixed, dabbed and blotted, onto this canvas I call my life. There are no real rules to follow, no processes, no patterns. It’s just there, calling on me constantly to come play with it, if for no other reason, than just to see what happens.
Occasionally, the results are phenomenal. Other times, the broad strokes are just chaotic and random; there’s no obvious redeeming value. And occasionally, the idea is still just an idea. The paint hasn’t made it to the canvas… yet!
I used to fret that I couldn’t focus on a single thing – like playing the guitar – until I had mastered it. I used to envy those who could. But these days I’m really glad that I have this kaleidoscope view of the world, where everything blends into everything else, creating something new and ever changing. It’s uniquely my own, this space I get to play in and occasionally invite others in to see. And I am so lucky to get to live it, this life of a creative.
In the Emerald City, making stuff up for nearly six decades,
– Robb