“If you live among wolves you have to howl like a wolf.” -Russian Proverb
The cutting edge is upon me and I am once again, slammed to the pits of despair. I’ve also got a splitting headache. Well then.
As an esurient, in need of tobacco and better food, I want. What can I say? The eclectic life is not always the easiest. Or the wealthiest.
I am suffering as an artist and I recently read that suffering, that is, all out depression makes us better artists. Maybe. But something’s gotta give.
I think of Van Gogh. A beautiful soul, head fangled by the crude and lead in the paint. Yes, what suffering and he wasn’t truly appreciated until long after he died. Fine wine is no respector of life span.
Frankly, I’m pissed off. Like the boxer whose taken a humiliating and heinous ass kicking, I don’t want this round to end with my face on the floor.
Therefore, I don’t quit and yet I’m not producing at the standard which I want to. Why? Because life is not conducive to creative activity. It is a hard core experience of hard edges which tear at the heart and mind.
A terrible ache is ripping through my brain. My income has dwindled by 75% in the past year. I’m hungry. I’m so broke, there’s nothing funny about it.
Yet, I’m grinning. In my old jeans and sweat shirt. In my pitiful little cottage, down by the rail road tracks. I own more books than furniture.
This ain’t disco. This is the real tornado. It’s a damned awful tragedy it is and yet it isn’t over. It ain’t over, till it’s over, as they say. And the boy says to me, “You can’t quit writing, mom.”.
Of course, that’s the answer. I can’t quit writing.