I Got Those Turning 50 in the Face of the Pandemapocalypstical Blues
I am turning 50 around 10 PM tonight. I'm sitting in my truck trailer. The prairie winds shake it as I contemplate what the fuck I'm going to do next. I've been constantly looking for a home since 2011. One year I counted that I had actually moved over 24 times. Often from building to building room to room Florida floor community to community in and out of my car… During this period I rented my own room for the first time in about two years and someone lit my car on fire the day I was trying to leave… I have a lot of stories like these. It makes me wonder what is it about me that makes these things happen. I keep trying to change my behavior or become more aware or say the right thing to the right person to change my life situation, but I am identifying more and more with fate. The older I get the more it seems that life's choices may have already been decided and this could just be a playing records somewhere in the great cosmic audio phonic library of mystery and compensate of results. When I share my stories I'm told that I have had a very rich and interesting life. When I talk about the highlights or the low lights or the shadows the peaks and valleys between.…: I see what they mean, But to me it's all one long struggle. I am your quintessential starving artist. I often would rather paint then eat. But I know if through all of my karma that if I don't eat there is no painting and if I paint instead of eat I will never get that cat Canvas up or get the brush in my hand. Or the sculpting tool. Or the notebook outs and the stories written. It really does seem infinite me as if I were able to just access my creativity stay there and just produce it it would be endless as long as I could keep my energy my body my state of being on my space all synchronizing. I pray every moment for a holistic solution to my problems some thing that will break bring me into equilibrium with my best state of being and allow me just to exists. My current state does not allow me to have social relationships. I've been socially isolating (to the extreme) since July 2019. All of the friends I've come to rely on I realized had no time or space for me. They didn't seem interested in any kind of mutual beneficial relationship. Everyone was too busy with what they had. Even my own family is too consumed to include me. And it is equally so I am too consumed by my own driving creative forces to continue making art then any ability to be what people need me to be to be in their life. And so because I am a very imperfect being I am writing this down hoping it may be read and comprehended by something somewhere eventually. Van Gogh one side "Maybe I'm painting people paintings for people who aren't born yet." I came to the same conclusion long ago that it is gravely possible that my work may never be appreciated or seen during my lifetime. On the day I turn 50 I am amazed I've made it this far; I believe I'm ready to go anytime, but as long as I live, I will strive to do the best I can -- with what I have. Right now to any outside locker it probably seems like a giant mess made up mostly of garbage. People don't see what I see the value and the fascinating things that exist and all that I have collected and put together. If I had a magic wand that could assimilate all of my projects into their proper order and use, I would have at least four finished plays, several novels, an opera, and loads of masks, puppets, and sculptures. So goes my song.
#Igotthoseturning50inthefaceofthePandemapocalypsticalBlues
