I've been traveling along Freelance Alley for several years, performing an assortment of odd jobs, subjecting myself to roommates who'd I'd otherwise not have dealt with it, and living without health insurance.

I've worked uptown and downtown Manhattan, a brief stint in a hospital in Queens, New Jersey, and Connecticut as a full-time employee.

As a freelance worker, I miss seeing different people daily on the subways, people walking about the streets of New York, and coworkers with dramatic or problematic lives that made me count my blessings. It was some of those coworkers that set my wheels in motion: Take a chance in your life or become him!

Daydreaming in the workplace isn't always bad. It was in those creative visualizations I realized I'd best make a move to freelance or end up depressed and health-insured, en route to a weekly therapist's visit trying to reconcile a human desire for stability and comfort.

Freelancing isn't easy. I look for work daily on Mediabistro and Craigslist even though I have reliable work as a teacher and editor. I'm not asking for sympathy. I know there are thousands of others doing what I do at home, from free wireless coffee shops and lounges, or public libraries.

The Caribbean super in an adjacent building is my daily wake-up call: slamming doors, gathering broken bottles, and singing various melodies. Time goes so fast sitting behind a computer screen researching, writing, or editing. I brew coffee, feed the cats and tropical fish, prepare breakfast and set about improving my craft daily. I look at the clock on the screen and wonder where the hours have gone when I hear students returning from school.

I've seen ads online for freelancer support groups, but realize I don't want to spend my time listening to people whine about not having medical benefits, sick and personal days, and office gossip.

I am happier working from my home office with buckling and warped floors camouflaged underneath a thrift store area rug, rather than working full-time in an office, trying to please an inconsolable supervisor and their boss.

When I worked in investment banks as a helpdesk agent and software trainer, I didn't like who I'd become: a working stiff, a zombie. The salaries were off the chart, the benefits and perks enviable. I wasn't content sitting at a desk surrounded by the long faces of people who'd either given up on their dreams or never had dreams of a remarkable life.

I hustle for work. I have created a freelance existence from scraps, sweat, and a desire not to be homeless and hungry in one of the most expensive cities in the world. It's better that I'm not in office with soulless people, my eyebrow raised, the hairs on my arms tingling, as yet another coworker regales the office with a play-by-play of their weekend in Atlantic City.

I believe I was born to guide, mentor, and teach. I'm the oldest of three brothers, and from my earliest memories, I've been in the role of emotional and spiritual counselor. Family relationships are different from friends and colleagues, yet the roles have always been the same.

I have taught computer technology and software applications, which I wouldn't want to do ever again. The people I taught were bored office workers who wanted to escape their cubicle or frightened middle management or executives without their trustworthy assistant. Education works best when there are mutual goals.

I prefer natural teachers than those out to prove something. Some of my favorite past teachers were those who put their students on the top their priority list. I remember my seventh grade English teacher who doubled as my drama coach, for subtle gestures such as making sure we knew a world existed outside our junior high school.

No matter where I am or have been, I've fallen into the role of mentor/teacher. In summers past, I spent weekends rollerskating and inline skating in Central Park. No sooner than I'd arrive, someone would stumble in my direction, I'd break their fall and try to say something encouraging: "Don't bust your butt!" No, I wouldn't say that. I'd guide said person off to the side and commence teaching the basics of inline skating.

Natural teachers operate on a different wavelength than those who must teach. Natural instructors (guides) are able to forget ourselves (egos, fears, insecurities) and concentrate on our student(s).

When I wasn't teaching people how to roll and bounce on their rollerblades, I was near Bethesda Fountain or the Bandshell in Central Park channeling my ancestors in the middle of the circle with the African drummers and dancers. Before moving to New York City, I had never seen or heard a djembe drum or an African from the continent. The dundun talked and I listened. The sound of the djembe ascended and I met it three feet in the air, unbeknownst to my body and mind that I'd gazelle genes. Once back on solid ground, children and courageous adults would approach and ask me to teach them what I'd just performed in my trance-like state. My impromptu students in a single line, and I'd set about reconnecting with spirits summoned from the beat of the first West African rhythm.

Viewing past pictures of me dancing in the park, I truly believed I was 'taken over' by someone. (I dare not say possessed, my friends in the Bible belt of the south would send up a pastor or two to perform an exorcism.) I've never taken a dance class in my life, but there I was dancing on rollerblades and barefoot in Central Park. I was a student to the wind and ancestors present. Teachers and students learn from each other. Teachers have the knowledge, but it is with individual students we learn to teach.

In recent months, this principle has unfolded in my life. I've taught the Language Arts GED component in Spanish Harlem since June. I had no expectations when I walked into the room for the mock-training session that was part of the interview process. What was there to fear when I've performed in front of packed auditoriums and in front of my family at church?

I stood in front of the class unsure of them as they were of me. I might have channeled my past instructors, or my aunt who has taught third grade for the last thirty or more years in Houston when looking into the eyes of the assembled students. By the end of the allotted time, I was asked to extend my tutorial. A good sign for all involved.

Teaching is emotionally, spiritually, and physically draining. There have been days when I've wished for a hearty Eastern European masseuse, Inga or Svetlana, to wrap me in seaweed and massage my temples. I teach one day a week, and I've felt this way. Imagine if I taught five days a week, and for several years. Kudos to my aunt and other teachers around the world who love to teach.

I think politicians and school administrators should create an insurance policy much like car owners have for accidents or destruction of their automobiles. If such a plan were put in place, I would teach fulltime knowing that I could select a list of restorative amenities from a drop down menu. It might attract the necessary qualified and dedicated teachers to classrooms around the world.

Life in New York requires a tax account, a psychologist or psychiatrist if one requires medication, and boundless patience.

When I relocated to the East Coast several years, I experienced sticker shock when shopping for food or clothes, and especially paying the rent for a less than perfect apartment.

I live uptown Manhattan, at the end of Central Park West, near St. John's The Divine Cathedral, and Columbia University's main campus. I'm fortunate, I think, that my monthly expenses are lower than friends in other neighborhoods and boroughs.

My building is weird; not at all what I'm accustomed from having lived in Texas. I miss having a front and back yard. I miss family BB-Q's and parties complete with boisterous poker games, screaming babies, and sleepy relatives after they've eaten too much sweet potato pie or peach cobbler.

My building is a year-round brick oven that seems to be falling apart from the center outward. Each floor has its own set of characters, personalities, and gossip. One apartment in particular reeks of something: soiled furniture, clothes, or perhaps a rotted corpse. Often times I've thought about pouring Lysol or Clorox Bleach at the base of the door to decrease the escaping stench. I think that would be rude. Instead, I might leave a few plants and flowers at the door. The flora would contrast the thick yellow and brown paint in the hallway and cut the scent from that apartment.

I think anything would be an improvement over the current state of my building. My main concern is that I'll have moved out before the building buckles and collapse.

My creative flame is flickering lately and it concerns me -- mostly because it's something I've always been able to push through. There's always been the workaholic in me that finds another way to keep the adrenalin flowing so my production never slows.

It's just that it's been about 12 months now that I've been giving all of my soul to this creative project that I was sure would have seen financial success about 4 months ago. But it has done nothing other than tease me with some potential interest that I busted my balls to get and now a silent plateau is laughing at me.

As an artist, it seems that good fortune rarely just presents itself. We have to make our own opportunities, run the show and then force some sort of reaction out of people.

When you're a newbie in the working artist world, this cycle is expected and the "fresh meat" spirit of it all makes it sort of fun. A few years down the line, the 'performance' of creating, marketing and wishing for a taste of artistic success wears on the creative soul. The artwork always gets better, but the routine of promotion and rejection stays the same.

Have I painted myself into a corner? Have my expectations for success gotten the best of me? When will this dry spell end?

Note: The diary entry below was actually started last night, but I didn’t quite finish it, and trying to recapture the moment to give it that extra punch has so far alluded me. This is due to the fact that a student of mine, at my day job of course, decided to have a complete meltdown this morning by attacking me (kicking, screaming, yanking several strands of hair out of my head, etc.), which forced me into using physical restraints to help transport this student back to a mental institution. I’m not kidding. So, forgive me if it appears to run out of steam. But I’m fried. More on all of this after I recover from the injuries with a few good days and nights of heavy drinking.


Okay, it’s Sunday night, and I’m doing what I usually do before having to face another week of working in day job hell: I’M WATCHING TELEVISION. It’s the perfect lobotomy.

Now, normally, I just surf around and pause on whatever looks interesting. Usually, that means stopping to watch the History Channel, Turner Classic Movies (TCM), A&E or, if I’m feeling particularly horny and desperate, anything on E! or VHI. Luckily this month on TCM, they’re showcasing the movies of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, so I at least have something to look forward to every weekend. These guys made great films, and I was fortunate enough to catch one of their best, A Matter of Life and Death starring David Niven. If you haven’t seen this film, I urge you to check it out as soon as possible. It’s known mostly in America under the title, “Stairway to Heaven” but, unfortunately, since most of you probably rent from Blockbuster (the bane of quality cinema), you probably won’t be able to find it.

But I digress…

I was enjoying my two hours of escapism when, suddenly, my wife enters the room and asks if we can watch the Emmys. I hadn’t realized the Emmys were on tonight and, to be honest, the idea of watching the award show made me nauseous. So, I thought about it for a moment, then threw up. Not that the artists don’t deserve their accolades, it’s just that I have a hard time watching them while it all happens. That, and all the insipid and superficial stuff surrounding the event. I think you know what I’m talking about. Joan, what happened? You used to be funny back in the day.

I don’t know why it is that so many of the losers of the world (most of us) like to sit around watching the winners of the world (few of them) congratulate themselves on winning. It’s like some kind of mass masochism wherein all the losers sit around their television sets and fool themselves into thinking they’re actually winners by projecting themselves vicariously into the spectacle itself. Now repeat that sentence three times. I guess it’s the same thing in sports. Fans identifying themselves so closely with their team that they trick themselves into actually believing they’re a part of it. We are a silly lot.

I think what bothers me the most is that our culture has become, for lack of a better word, dumb. We’re a nation of self-indulgent idiots who spend the better part of our lives worshipping mediocrity. We’re literally amusing ourselves to death and, quite frankly, the art and entertainment we’re doing it with is just plain boring. I guess we’re all lobotomized to some extent.

Okay, I'm feeling sorry for myself tonight. Why? I'm so glad you asked. For starters, I just looked at my bank balance. I'm completely broke. I work my ass off all year at two, count 'em, two day jobs to make ends meet, and I can't even do that. On top of that, my imaginary career has stalled indefinitely. Yeah, I'm a writer. A screenwriter to be exact. In other words, I'm a loser. Please shoot me.

Don't ask me why I've chosen this as my passion. I don't even know myself. All I know is that I can't help myself. It all started in college. I was a theatre major with an emphasis on acting and getting high. I was good, and I knew I was going to be famous someday. Then one semester, due in no small part to my in-depth research on how to totally fuck up your education, I pulled a 0.2 GPA and, thus, was barred from acting ever again. Well, maybe not ever again, but it sure felt like it at the time. After all, I didn't give a shit about anything else. Acting was my thing. My life. My entire raison d' etre. Yes, I was a pretentious bastard. Stoned and drunk. Not a good combo. Then suddenly, like waking up from a bad hangover, I was barred from doing the only thing I thought I could do well. Or liked, for that matter. So, I did what any self-destructive artist would do, I borrowed my friend's typewriter and two-fingered: FADE IN. The rest, as they say, is a sad history.

Now it's going on 15 years since the first day I hunt and pecked those goddamned words, and I'm still nowhere closer to my dream of never having to get a real job again. Oh sure, I've developed my craft, won some recognition and, heck, even been paid a little for it. But still, I sit here typing these words. A thirty-something ex-Gen-Xer with nothing to show for it. I've truly lived up to the slacker cliché. I've become what conventional wisdom said I would become. And that's the worst part of it all.

Tonight I'm feeling sorry for myself. Please shoot me.

With limited resources and trying to think of something significant I could do to extend aid to victims of Katrina, I've thought of one hare-brained idea. I'm confident that, if it has major weaknesses you all will help me identify them. But, if it's a halfway decent idea, you might also help me figure out how I, and possibly you on your own, could make it work.

My wife and I have donated a tiny amount of cash and are considering the possibility of taking a couple or small family into our home (we live in Dallas), but my thoughts then go to what broader help I am particularly qualified to offer.

I expect that many of the evacuees probably feel isolated, discouraged and possibly even hopeless, and that these feelings may continue or magnify even after they've been fed and sheltered. Psychological aid – the realization that more people than they may know are concerned for their well-being (they're not sitting around watching CNN like so many of us), and the restoration of hope – might be the most significant thing that, as an artist, I could help bring about. So I am at this moment thinking of how I might do some mail art, as many pieces as possible in a short amount of time, to send them.

The first obstacle that comes to mind is whether anything would even get through to them. I doubt the Red Cross, Salvation Army, or any other relief organization that's sheltering and assisting these people would take the risk of handing to an evacuee an envelope sent by an anonymous individual.

But I have the feeling that a post card, which is also the simplest and cheapest canvas I could choose, would not be held up. And I also assume that cards sent to any of the many evacuation centers in several Texas cities – Houston's Astrodome or Dallas' Reunion Arena for instance – could find their way into SOMEONE'S hands even without a specific name in the address. Admittedly, this is all speculation, and I have yet to research it in any detail. That's my next step.

Your ideas, experiences and even criticisms would be welcomed. (message originally posted at Yahoo! Collage Art and Artists Group)

–– James Michael