The collective noun for a group of goldfish is a troubling. My father once shared the story of the time that I, as a child, blundered open the lid on his tank and dumped an entire canister of flakes inside. They were hungry, I reasoned, there’s no way that’s enough. The goldfish, unable to control themselves, overate until they died. Sometimes I still think about those poor freshwater sacrifices that still swim between the folds of my memory. I think about the wilted troubling, except this time I am in my mid-20s, and I am the one in the tank. The fish food, most irresistible, is my insatiable need for success.
I took a veritable plunge into the world of working full-time as an artist about a year ago. Letting go of the riverbank that was a sandy, if only marginally more secure job as a political advisor, I packed up nearly 28 months of back-to-back internships. Switching to skinny jeans and earbuds, I started working on my manuscript. As a performance poet, I also became obsessed with performing as often as I could, often working myself to complete exhaustion.
I remember depositing cheques, writing invoices, living between gigs out of my car that quickly became a travelling closet and a kitchen table. I made single-evening friends who shook my hand. I craved stage lights, thinking that even a faceless audience was better than no audience, without realizing that it was I who was becoming obscured and warped, like the bed of a shallow pond as it longs for even the distortion of sunshine. On a bus ride from Regina to Saskatoon between tour stops, my eyes started to blur hot and wet.
I do not know if goldfish can cry, but I knew that I was tired. My business degree told me that I had achieved a positive return on investment for the year — a successful start-up, by any means. But what it did not tell me was that I had cut myself off from living outside the fish tank that was my pursuit of art. So I started doing what a troubling of goldfish has, after thousands of years, never learned how to do: Slowly practice how to say “no.” I recommend other poets for gigs, set out on new timelines for projects with reasonable windows for doubt and failure, and spend one Saturday a month in the confines of my bedroom watching anime.