So I'm sitting at the kitchen table. Alone. It's like 10:30. I do this every morning. It's like my job. I answer email. Work on my art. Look for jobs that pay money. I have a career but what I need is "moneygetting." Like everybody in America I need money. America is about moneygetting. You can't do moneyspending without moneygetting and I don't want to get into moneystealing. That's not too cool. What do I need money for? Dunno. I don't really have anything I need or want to purchase. I guess in America there is a value, a ranking, a hierarchy bestowed to the quantity of moneygetting you do. Right now, that makes me pretty low; about four inches above the cracked out pieces of shit we all fear when we're walking alone downtown. Mastercard says I can spend like $25,000 on shit but they kind of expect that dough back.
But I'm sitting here at my laptop, doing my thing. There's a guy power washing the front of my house. They are going to work on the wood rot and paint or something, shit I could probably do if I weren't so busy typing this. Sentence. Right. Here. Some guys from the city were painting some dumb lines on the street to show you where to park your car. Nobody gives a shit about those lines. It's just paint on asphalt. But this is the job these guys were assigned for their moneygetting. I can't hate. Later on they can go out and moneyspend on Bud Light and child support and spark plugs. That sounded kind of elitist, huh? I make no apologies for that.I'm drinking yerba mate. Yes, I'm on the mate kick again. New bag. New life. I'm eating cherries fresh from Whole Fields. Kathy from next door just called about the dogs and I almost missed the call because I have big ass headphones on. Fat cans, man. I'm working on transformation.
I'm just setting a scene for you so you can envision how I begin my day. One of the bananas is moving from overripe to rotten; you can smell it. I'll eat it later. I'll eat later. I'm filling up on the mate water though. I'm guessing Costa Ricans piss a lot. I had to "clean up" the ants this morning. If the cat doesn't eat in like three minutes here they come. Clean up is the euphemism for kill the prehistoric bastards. But I'm teaching the offspring that we don't kill. Yes, Raid kills 'em dead. Another lie to resolve.
I finished processing a couple of pictures but I'm just kind of burned out on photography right now. The all-black and white June turned into a bust for me psychically. I got about 70 posts in that thread but it started to weigh heavily on me. This month is weighing heavily on me. It seems I'm not alone though. Seems most people I know have concerns this month. Maybe it's just a state. Maybe it's where we are.
There's still so much to do. So much on my mind. I have this audio project to do. It'll be something different that will probably end up sounding exactly like the same old crap from my camp. Why can't I have real talent like Dave or Rich? Maybe if I weren't so lazy...I mean right now I could be playing guitar. But...my fingers still hurt a little from yesterday. Maybe I'm just not sufficiently inspired. Conversely, maybe I'm just overly sufficiently distracted by circumstances. At inception of each major project there is much preparatory thinking and willing that must happen. Many questions to answer. How do I do this again? How did I block out the distractions? What's my purpose? Oh look cherries. No! I have to put the amp here. The microphone here. I wonder if the Dodgers won? No! Stop it! You're spacing out, son. Where's the tuner? I wonder if the new Achewood posted? I just checked. It hasn't. He's running it "midday" this week. What the hell is he doing? I'm a charter donor, I should be emailed this shit. Fucker.
This will be like the ninth or tenth album I've made. I actually cannot account for the right number off the top of my head. I'd have to look it up. Just like I'd have to look up anybody else. How weird is that? I remember when I was like three albums in I could so confidently state, "This is our third album!" Like that rookie shit even meant anything. Ten or twelve years down the road it's not about how many records you've made, it's more about have you fulfilled your potential or simply, have you fulfilled your will yet. Art is dark matter.
I got a lecture from Lily this weekend. She was all nudging -- no shoving -- me to get my shit together for a gallery exhibit. I started in on my whole bullshit about how it's not about what other people think but how I relate to my art and blah blah and she just says, "Shut! Up! With that nonsense!" She insisted it was form of moneygetting.
So I have to go get ten frames and ten mats and pick ten images to frame and frame ten images. Then I have to give those ten pieces to her and she'll do the rest. Ha! How do I pick ten to print? If I had that figured out I'd be eating fucking bon-bons by the pool and there's be like a dozen naked or half-naked models standing around awaiting their turn to pose for me. I'd have PAs doing most of the the real work. Art is dark matter.
I remember seeing Ben at his San Francisco artist's reception being all benevolent and patient with people. And by people I mean rich queens who wanted to eat him during the course of some violent sex act and people who just asked really stupid questions. He was all, "Thank you very much for coming out. I appreciate your comments." Can I do that? I'd be all antsy and fidgety and ANNOYED to high heavens. "What is it a picture of? Fuck! It's whatever you want it to be! Jesus, how did you even get in here. Somebody get me a goddamn drink!" Art is dark matter.
So here I sit on like twenty years of work from my most productive period. Most of it ready to be deleted during a lightning strike or the drop of a hard disk. Ha! There are some things printed. But I've given the bulk of that away in some desperate attempt to be valued or accepted by friends and fans alike. Oh you like that? Here, I'll print (and frame and mail) you a copy. Why can't I have real talent like Christine or Cassady?
What's funny is I cannot take a compliment for shit either. People are either lying or they want something. This is just what I do, how can anyone like it? That's just weird. Lily says she'll make me index cards with pre-printed expressions of gratitude. "Thank you. You're so very kind [smile]. We can ship work to anyplace in the world. We take checks [offer handshake]." Why can't I be talented like Lily?
So here I sit typing instead of working. Maybe this is the end of the ride; an arc completed. Or is what I feel that wonderful feeling of being on the verge of bigness again? Dunno.
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I've Always Been This Awkward
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