Art=Beautiful Masochism

The past two months have been the hardest in my life: 

My best friend has been suffering from Lewy Body Dementia.

There was a “relationship situation” that imploded like a defective tire. 

A third situation I have to be cautious talking about in public; let’s just say it involves leaving this apartment…on a scheduled basis.

At the same time I have been on an insanely creative streak:

Once I finished See The Stars They’re Shining Bright, music sorta jumped on my back—

I recorded ten songs in August alone and have been churning out song lyrics.

Equal to the hurt are the feelings of gratitude to have something to get me though; it’s been like this since I was a teenager.

Art is a sort of beautiful masochism, in my case, at least.

I get into a fucking awful situation and there's this part of me going, “Ah, well, I guess I’ll be getting some good writing done.”

Writing See The Stars was awful, loads of turning over rocks and poking at monsters from the past—

Lots of opening myself to things I buried decades ago and crying—

But it resulting in a strong book so I am fine doing it.

The relationship situation…I opened myself up to someone, opened myself in a way I have not since I was in my twenties—

When it ended I was devastated.

But it has resulted in some beautiful songs so…okay…it worked out in the end.

I have accepted the beautiful masochism part of my variety of “art life.”

As the awfulness of the past weeks slowly recedes this burst of inspriation will (most likely) dissipate—

Soon all that will be left is the faint smell of smoke.

I am getting older, things are beginning to break down---

It’s the cycle of the human machine.

I have no retirement savings, I make less than $40k a year.

But a better paying job would mean more responsibilities—

Which would take even more time and energy from what I perceive to be my calling.

So, instead of securing my future I am churning out books and music as long as I can—

Four years ago, my friend with Lewy Body Dementia was perfectly healthy but now….

Part of appreciating life is understanding how fragile it is, how vulnerable we all are.

I have no idea how long I can keep doing this, I’m surprised it has lasted this long.

But it has so I keep pushing, keep reaching. 

I should have flow charts, be putting things out on a schedule, have this concise marketing plan—

Should.

I pace this apartment, bitching and moaning about not selling many books, not getting many views of my (rudimentary) lyric videos—

I have no one to blame but myself.

And I accept that, just as I accept that my best work often comes from periods when my heart is utterly broken—

I’ve learned to just throw my arms around the conflagration until nothing is left but the smell of smoke on my clothes.