this living thing is a real balancing act.
i am juggling with fireballs.
have learned a lot about the way i operate.
been experimenting quite a lot too.
yes, sometimes at the expense of others…
unfortunately.
for awhile i thought i must suffer
i must be miserable
depressed
down and out
and then my artistry will thrive
but that’s not how it works…
nope.
the truth is, when i feel like shit
I don’t want to do anything. except escape the feeling.
sleeping, drinking, distractions…etc.
but when i am not feeling good, i don’t want to do ANYTHING.
yes, there might be inspiration there to create some melodies
or put some words together
write a song, a poem, or something
but i don’t want to do it! and often the inspiration probably goes unnoticed
besides, that can happen anytime
it doesn’t happen because of whatever is going on,
it happens in spite of it.
this idea that i could create a certain kind of environment for this process to flourish
is a fallacy.
an expensive one.
i have had to pay the price,
i am still paying
i am in debt.
inspiration is not intellectual. they are opposites!
it’s hard to feel good always and constantly.
and when i don’t feel good
i want the whole world to burn
i want to destroy everything
other people’s happiness, their successes are like daggers into my soul
i want everybody to join me in my gloom
and that makes me feel even worse
and then i want everyone else to feel worse
is this envy?
does this make me an envious person?
or is it just a sort of sick empathy where the river flows in the wrong direction?
i don’t know, but i do know one thing:
I am very obsessed with myself.
okay, maybe a better way to say that would be:
I am very fascinated with myself.
I mean, it is exciting being me i must admit.
most people, things, songs, books, poems, ideas, movies, conversations, emails, plays, concepts, paintings… eventually bore me.
even stuff i get excited about. the excitement wears off quite quickly.
not me.
self-hatred? sure.
self-boredom? never!
i have all these songs, poems, notebooks filled, files, ideas, melodies, choruses, etc.
and they are all stuck in my head.
getting them out of there, to you, to someone…
is like staring up at an impossibly steep mountain
that disappears up into the distance
knowing i must climb it to survive.
yet I don’t care about surviving, i want to turn my back to it.
all I care about is not what i have done but what i will do
past works mean nothing.
this is why i can never understand these so called “artists”
who travel around from place to place, year to year, day after day
playing their same old songs, to a bunch of empty faces
only to do it all again with a bunch of “new” old songs
i could never do that.
that is not art.
and so goes the story of my life.
i continue to do whatever it is that i do
for no one
for someone
for me
remaining desperate
to just express myself
no matter who is interpreting, receiving, rejecting, listening
if indeed anyone at all
to remain authentic
to myself
is the only thing there is.