Sensitive Artists

     Another big article recently about creative people and how sensitive they are. Do you think writers and artists are especially sensitive people? According to many writers and artists they are. They’re extremely intuitive and thoughtful and insightful, complicated and perceptive. Don’t they feel more deeply, aren’t they more caring and shouldn’t we understand that their profound complexity requires that we treat them with extra special respect and admiration?

     Oh, shit no. No, no, no.

     A person I know, who calls himself a writer, does not have cancer, is not living in poverty, doesn’t have disabilities, doesn’t suffer the burden of children, can afford decent food, gas, heat, appears to be tolerant of his current wife, has plenty of time to garden and travel and take cooking classes at the local junior college. He recently posted a message in which he was passionately lamenting the trials and difficulties of The Writer’s Life, the literary torments, the daily production of linked sentences composed of correctly spelled words and how proud and blessed he was to have finished his latest story.

     Fuck you, you toilet. Please. There is no “Writer’s Life”.

     There is Life, short and confusing and you choose to write. Or paint or sculpt or dance. Or not. There are no special gifts or cosmic sensitivities. Hard work and luck. Those are the often-overlooked necessary components of any real artistic enterprise. Not self proclaimed “sensitivity” or praise from friends about how well you express yourself in your retarded Facebook posts. Really, everyone expresses himself or herself fairly well and it doesn’t make them special or unique.

     Sorry, but there is only one species of humans. Homo Sapiens. That’s us and that’s it. Eating, digesting, screwing, dying and some of us do other stuff like painting and writing and juggling and competitive eating. There are not Homo sapiens I and Homo Sapiens II; the first group consisting of everyone else in the world and the other is that special advanced species of writers and artists. Ridiculous bullshit. Bitching about the hardships of an artist’s life makes one a gigantic whining baby, not an artist. No one is more than a normal human being with varying human weaknesses and abilities.

     Of course, the organism closest to Humans is the Chimpanzee. Perhaps artists and writers are more in tune with their inner chimp than the divine muse.

     Gee, you’ve written a nice poem and that’s a beautiful photograph of your grandchildren in the snow. Moving and profound. Your painting is a wonderful representation of the struggles of the artist in an uncaring society. Here’s your banana.

     Now that would make sense.

You Can Also Use an Ax to Chop Wood

     I bought a huge load of wood this year and it is nice and dry, almost perfect, but some of the pieces are a little too big for my fireplace. I needed to buy an ax to cut up the more cumbersome logs, split them down into kindling and make them fit.

     I spent an afternoon stacking the wood and it looks impressive, a looming wall of logs up against the fence, neatly arranged. I was sore after the job, but it felt good. I know I’m not the first guy to discover that physical labor can feel great and is healthy and satisfying. That was probably one of the Roman Stoics in the third or fourth century AD, just around the time the Roman Empire was collapsing and they were running out of slaves to do the heavy lifting.

     Stacking wood is weight bearing; the moving of objects from one place to another for an hour or so will help keep a person in good shape, strong and capable. Much better than standing still in a gym full of boneheads lifting barbells and tugging on threatening machines, running nowhere on treadmills.

     Picking up fifty armloads of wood and staggering twenty yards to stack it is gratifying and I don’t feel judged because I’m not dressed in the proper workout attire or I’m not slim enough and young and confident. I’m alone, out of breath, sweaty, covered in sawdust and dirt, my hands are scratched and filthy, but I’m doing something practical. And it’s relatively free. Of course, and this is a legitimate concern, there is no one around to administer CPR if something goes wrong, as it inevitably will. I can’t get a sixty-dollar massage and we don’t have a tanning booth, but I’m also not worried about anyone stealing my wallet or some testo-aggro dude who is looking for trouble.

     This morning I went to the hardware store and purchased an ax so I can chop the wood. I’ve never done that before, it was a unique, once in a lifetime experience. My First Ax. Felt good, let me say. I can never repeat the act of purchasing my first ax; it’s like first sex or first drink, first fight and first divorce. A right of passage.

     At the door of the hardware store I ran into my physical therapist. He’s a nice guy, handsome with good hair, serious, healthy as hell, strong, and he has helped me significantly with my chronic back problem and the tendonitis in my left arm.

     I’ve never felt comfortable with small talk and I don’t do it well. I’m usually accused of being inappropriate or obscene or dismissive. Most people tend to be sincere if they ask a question and they don’t expect a wise crack. I grew up differently and am always prepared for an automatic insult, a nasty response or sarcasm. I wish it wasn’t true. Over the past decade I’ve become much more integrated into the normal conversational deportment of others and I try to restrain myself, but when I’m feeling good and caffeinated I sometimes don’t edit as well as I should.

     The physical therapist is twenty years younger than I am but he cheerfully called out, “Hey, how are you doing, young man? How’s the back?”

     “My back is good today. Thanks for the help.”

     “What are you getting?”

     “An Ax. Some guy just pissed me off. I need an ax.”

     “So, what, are you going to work out your aggression by chopping a bunch of fireplace wood?”

I looked at him, squinted and realized he was completely serious. This is the way some people truly think. Their first word association when they hear the word “Ax” is “Wood”. Incredible.

     I answered, “No. I don’t have a fireplace.”

     He giggled nervously, realized that I was kidding him. Finally, I thought. Jesus, dude. I immediately, instinctively, decided that there was something wrong with him, but in reality, to this healthy young man the concept of working out one’s anger, anxiety, aggression by doing some exercise or hard physical work was as natural as breathing. I am in a prolonged state of recovery, but I'm occasionally reminded that there may still be flaws in my thinking and reactions.

     The ax I bought is a beautiful tool with a smoothly curved and tapered handle; it’s heavy enough to swing overhead and let the momentum do most of the work. It came pre-sharpened and slices through wood like butter, if I hit the log right. I missed a lot of the time, swung at thin air, jerking and jumping out of the way of the deadly blade, but still, it was a good half hour workout and I felt manly and outdoorsy when I was finished. Now I have a big pile of wood in varying sizes that will fit the fireplace. Success and health. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

     I thought about leaving my new ax outside, near the woodpile, but instead I’ve put it right next to the front door in the foyer, leaning against the wall. I can’t imagine using it for anything other than chopping wood, but you never know.

The Secret Answers to Life

I was having a pretty good morning until I started eavesdropping on the conversation at the table next to me at the coffee shop. There were several earnest men and women whispering about…The Secret… What the (bleep) do We Know…. Zeitgeist, those fakey science concept videos that were floating around a few years ago where men and women with good skin and white teeth who used to sell car wax and household cleaning products on infomercials were offering a method or video or book or board game that would give you enlightenment and success and money. Who the fuck are these people who offer a Higher state of being or transformation, God consciousness, energy, enlightenment, infinite healing, psychic, Soul, Spirit, Goddess, heart, light, Love, divine peace, serenity, Bigfoot, UFOs?

There are jillions of healers, ministers, priests, shamans, psychics, fortunetellers, magicians, guides, gurus and astrologers, the list goes on, so many people who are trying to convince me that they have a closer connection to the impossible and the ridiculous. Bullshit. They aren’t a more elevated species. There’s not like Humans (I) and Humans (II). These liars offer made up, inaccurate answers to insecure, sad, undereducated dimwits and there are no measurable results and no evidence that they do any good whatsoever. 

On the other hand, I’ve spent 30 years and hundreds of thousands of dollars of my own money to discover the Secret Answers to Life.

I can make you happy. Guaranteed. I will pass on ancient wisdom that I have discovered in my life’s journey to make you glad to be alive and brimming with self-esteem. Are you depressed? That’s a fucking shame. Are you sad about a divorce, or are you mourning the death of a loved one? I am so sorry. You have my deepest sympathies. Let’s cheer up together. I will show you a surefire way to move beyond sadness and depression. Do you feel as though you’re not reaching your full potential as an Artist or a Writer? Well, that’s no good, is it? No problem. I promise that I can make you a better artist, a more successful writer.  I know this is real, because I invented it. The Secret Answers to Life. All it takes is money. Act now to get your Secret Answers. One hundred dollars will get you one secret answer. A thousand bucks buys 12. And remember, Secret Answers make wonderful gifts.

I’ll give you a Secret Answer right now, for free: Trust your instincts. Unless you’re drunk. Then don’t trust your instincts. Want another? Sure, no problem. If someone tells you they have a way for you to gain insight into the future, achieve success in a relationship, become financially independent, they are full of crap and will rip you off and disappoint you.

I’ve worked out a sliding scale so that everyone, no matter how limited their resources, can achieve universal enlightenment and personal satisfaction. You need the Secret Answer. From me. Reasonably priced.

You’re welcome.

More About Freedom

   

More about Freedom

I’ve just returned from a trip Wyoming, which has the most beautiful landscapes on earth: mountains, rivers, forests, plains, wildlife, unending sky. Less wildlife these days, of course, due to human incursion, hunting, misuse of the environment. But still, some wildlife.

Plenty of people, too. Nice folks, I guess, but it’s hard to find a parking place but unless you walk a mile or so up the trail, there are crowds of other tourists enjoying the more convenient sites. This, naturally, makes me think about birth control. It’s your right to have a baby. Glory to god and all that but more people means less parking. No one is going to create a decent public transit system in the USA and we are going to continue depending on gas and oil for our energy. It’d be nice if everyone gave a shit, but they don’t. How can we have it all and keep the government off our back; keep them from limiting our freedom to breed and drive and still maintain ample parking?

Here are a few ideas:

Never quit smoking. Fuck the government and their nanny warnings. Smoking is fun and nicotine feels great.

Drink and Drive. What better way to get somewhere quickly? Driving is a drag; lighten the load with a pint of vodka.

The best drugs were invented in America for a reason. Be patriotic and take many drugs. Find new uses for narcotics.

Mix drugs and alcohol. If one is good, two are better. Just like kids.

Do not wear a motorcycle helmet. Live free. Ride free. Ride fast. Ride drunk.

Eat lots. You can get ten tacos for $9.90 at Taco Bell and a double quarter-pounder with cheese is only $4.69 at McDonald’s. Fast food, fast pleasure.

If you are in an abusive relationship, stay. If you leave you will be breaking up your family. You have a duty to the children.

Buy guns. Collect guns. Show your children where the guns are stored. You never know when the bad guys are coming.

Fight for your rights. Get in lots of fights with men who want to prove their manliness. Fight to the death if possible. Are you tough enough?

Suicide is a classically respected and honorable way to die. Consider it whenever you are confused or in trouble. Or out of money.

No one should restrict your freedom to do what you want. You deserve it all.

Remember to take crazy chances, walk down dark allies and argue with strangers.

I hope I’ve helped.

My Prayer

     Do you still believe in God? Really? Well good for you; must be nice and comforting. Am I right?

     I was raised Catholic, went to catholic schools, mass, the whole thing. The Catholic Church has taken a lot of crap in the past, and I’m not sure they deserve it. I was disciplined, disappointed and discouraged by the time I was 13 so I think my religious training was completely successful. The church helped make me into an angry, alcoholic cynic who is often crippled by self-doubt. Way to go, Religion. I can’t remember my own fucking phone number, but I remember prayers I learned as a toddler. Wow. Thanks for permanently occupying that part of my brain, the part I probably could have used to get laid more often but, Nope, it’s full of prayers.

I read the news every day. I probably shouldn’t, because after a half hour of Google, Christian Science Monitor and the San Francisco Chronicle I lean back and say, out loud, ”Man, I hate everything and everybody.” I become depressed and have scary thoughts.

     So, I’ve written a short prayer to help me get through those tough times of rage, anxiety and pessimism that occur whenever I attempt to understand the world. Here’s my prayer. You may join me if you wish.

     “Dear God, you little bastard, I pray that there actually is an afterlife and that you will be there in all your glory, because when I see you I am going to kick your cowardly, selfish, narcissistic ass. God, you sorry excuse for a deity, what made you think that racism, sexism, cruelty, bullying, tooth decay and venereal disease were things we really needed here on earth? You monster. You’d better hide behind wall of angels if you see me coming through the pearly gates because I am going to mess you up. If You are the all seeing, all knowing, loving, eternal, infinite and omnipotent dictator, then war, disease, starvation, torture, child abuse, Real Estate salesmen, wealthy entitled assholes, the Department of Homeland Security and the DMV are your creations and responsibility. You are doomed. Make your peace with your…self, I guess, because I’m coming for you and I’m not alone. That’s a promise, you evil, malicious weasel. Amen”.

     Feel better? Good. Me too.

A Message From Beyond the Grave

    

     I’m still getting my head around my mother’s death. I’m a little rocked, and that surprises me. It’s not like I wasn’t prepared. She was 96 years old, sharp and thriving up until the end and then she went to bed to die. Her choice. As usual. It was a relief for her and for the rest of us. We didn’t want to see her suffer; she didn’t, and that was good. It’s not the end of a life; it’s the end of an era.

     I heard the news from my sister on Friday, August 9. Chris called and told me that mom had died at 8:04 a.m. A rosary was planned for Monday evening and the funeral would be Tuesday morning followed by burial at Mt. Olivet Cemetery in San Rafael. I flew in from New Mexico on Saturday, befuddled by unique, once-in-a-lifetime feelings. I settled at the Embassy Suites, set up my computer, watched a few episodes of Family Guy, then went to my sister’s home where the rest of the immediate family was sorting through photographs and memorabilia of our mother. Momorabilia. There were lots of ancient photos of long gone relatives, letters, souvenirs, and holy cards she’d picked up at the many funerals she’d attended over the years. It was sad, sometimes absurd and we laughed a bit. We found a box of cheap costume jewelry and my brothers and I put on my mother’s gaudy earrings, wore them around the house for a while, deadpanned, pretending at seriousness.

     Sunday I met with some old friends, went to lunch in Tiburon, drove to the coast; I was trying to make an abnormal situation ordinary. I couldn’t do it. I was engaged in conversation, joking, listening, but there was something happening in my throat that restricted my breath.

     Monday night I parked in front of The Chapel of The Hills for the rosary and a bit of reminiscence with family and friends. My mother planned all this years ago; she was prepared. Unfortunately, the priest who mom had contracted to perform the prayers, her friend Father S, had been hospitalized that day and we had a substitute, a stand-in who didn’t know mom. The guy was dressed like a priest, but I heard him mention his “wife”. He was a deacon, I think. Apparently, they get to do all the priest stuff without the celibacy. But, wait, don’t priests already, um, have relations, arrested, molesting with the sex and the…? Never mind. Too complicated and confusing to get into right now. This man was licensed by the State of California and The Catholic Church to have legitimate, marital sex. Things are different since I quit religion.

     I was struck by a wave of grief during the procedures so I leaned against the pew and tried to check out and to keep a blank, unemotional demeanor. I snapped out of my trance when I heard the almost-priest mention that Jesus Christ had created the world, which was news to me, and my mom was with Him, looking down on us, very much strolling the clouds with God and enjoying her ample rewards. Shit. Here it comes. The waves of magic and mystery and myth that nearly drove me nuts as a kid. The only part that made sense was that mom was probably looking down on us. She was exasperating in her conviction that she was “right” about God, the church, her beliefs, her afterlife.

     After the prayers and the free form, inaccurate and slightly embarrassing religious oration by Deacon Strange, I visited with the attendees, slipped away and bought a burrito on the way back to the hotel. I watched some horror videos, became depressed and switched to Michael Connelly’s latest until I hit the hay.

     Tuesday morning we held the funeral at Nazareth House, where my mother had spent the last ten years of her life, and, of course, my mother requested a catholic mass, with an incredible amount of hymns. A woman with a serviceable voice and wide-eyed, intimidating facial expressions warbled the sacred songs. I felt guilty just looking at her. It had been a long time since I’d been in a church for any kind of ceremony.

     I was asked to write and read a eulogy. Half way through the service I stood, walked to the pulpit and delivered it in a faltering voice, which caught me unawares. I tried to make the eulogy appropriate and positive and respectfully left out any personal thoughts or statements. It was about mom’s life, not my feelings. I have to say, it worked. I stood in front of the mourners and lobbed little grenades of sadness into the crowd, explosions of emotion that went off like clockwork; bursts of tears, hands clutching, backs patted, the sound of sobbing.

      The mass has changed, too, since I’ve stopped caring. Everyone plays a part. It’s “inclusive”, which means that everyone is almost equal and, I guess, no altar boys are assaulted during the preparations. There were three priests on the altar, which was a lot, in my opinion. The time for Communion, the sacrament of the Eucharist, rolled around and everyone, and I mean everyone, queued up to receive the little round slip of unleavened bread. I sat in the front pew and most of the faithful averted their eyes as they passed me. My brothers, my sister, my nieces and nephews, strangers and at least two homeless guys lined up to partake. In the old days, as a youngster, I had been severely threatened and corporeally indoctrinated into Roman Catholicism, the host, the bread, Jesus’ body and blood in one package was considered highly sacred, a living, breathing, radioactive representation of Him. The priest was the only human designated to touch the Host and, in the old days, it couldn’t touch your teeth, it had to dissolve in you mouth and you had to pray like a bastard while it existed, melting and dissolving in the middle of the tongue. Lots to think about, many distractions, hard work.

     Nowadays, the celebrants hold out their cupped hands like they’re begging for real food, and the priest drops it in. They then pick it up and put it in their mouths and CHEW it and swallow it. Like it tastes good, yummy, like medicine, like dessert. They munch it; you can see everyone’s jaw muscles contracting and their teeth grinding.

One older woman, her hands shaking, dropped hers on the ground. ON THE GROUND. What the fuck? I thought they’d send in the goons to sweep her away, drag her off to be tortured, flayed and burned. Nope. She bent and picked it up (spry for her age), plopped it in her mouth and gulped it down. Wow. Much different than when I was a frightened, intimidated youngster.

     My mother made sure that we were brought up in the Old Catholic Church, the one where women were slaves, priests were kings and anyone who wasn’t of our faith was condemned. The Church’s product was fear and we were not even allowed to enter another denomination’s building. So it was sort of disorienting to see all of this modern behavior. Touching, talking, chewing. I hope it’s my last time, ever, in a church.

     Mom’s grave is nicely situated under a spreading oak tree on a grassy hill. She’s at rest next to my father with a couple of aunts and uncles nearby.

     At graveside, we listened, watched, some mumbled familiar prayers and then we got into our cars and headed out to enjoy a postmortem fest in my sister’s nice back yard. Good Italian meats, cheeses, wines, and sodas, fresh fruit, cheesecake and cookies. Great food. As I was biting into my first Mortadella sandwich my sister handed me an envelope.

     “Here you go, Joe. This is a letter from mom. She wanted me to give it to you after the funeral.”

     WHAT! WHAT! Fuck. Goddamn it. Not cool. Unfair. Totally unfair. A voice from the grave? A message from beyond? Wow. I was wiped out. Not only had I suffered with the rest of the family through mom’s last days, her death, the frigging rosary and mass and religious oddities, not only did I weep and write a great eulogy, leaving out all the bad stuff, all the negatives, not only was I alone and confused and considering, of course, my own impending certain death. Now there was this little bonus, a surprise, an Easter egg at the end of the day. A letter from mom from the aftergoddamnlife.

     Fuck.

     I put the envelope in my pocket, finished my sandwich, had another, finished off with two pieces of cheesecake. On the way back to the hotel room I stopped off first to buy some potato chips, what the hell, gonna die, have to read a message from beyond, might as well distract myself with food, make myself sick, eating my way past the grave. Better than a quart of tequila or a couple grams of coke. Like the church, I’ve changed, too.  I’m better, healthier, looking forward to a long life. Just as long as there are no mystical, horrifying afterlife memos from mom in heaven.

     What will it say?

     Will there be revelations?

     How will I feel after I’ve read her letter?

     Should I throw it away and continue my mourning?

     Why did I stop drinking tequila?

     Shit.

     So, I read the letter.

     The first thing I noticed is that it was a Xerox copy. I didn’t even have the original; it was a copy. Apparently, she made sure that others had received this important document. My brothers and sister must have copies, strangers and friends, too. Is this going to turn into some episode from “LOST”? It damn well better, because there aren’t a lot of legitimate explanations for delivering a letter to loved ones and family, requesting that it be opened and read after the writer’s death. I can only think of three reasons:

1.     A treasure map. That would make me happy. My mother knew of a buried treasure, a secret closet, a hidden account that is designated for me alone and now I am wealthy beyond my dreams and all will be easy and luxurious from here on. Gee, how I love my mom.

2.     She wanted to tell me that I was her favorite child. I had given her great joy and she is sorry for anything she had ever done to upset, hurt, confuse or anger me. She regrets not giving me more attention and guidance. Well, that’s very nice, very mature.

3.     She had written this letter to inform me that she always hated me, thought I was a tool, needy and weak. She acted as though she cared about my little triumphs and she tried to empathize with my misery, but she just didn’t like me very much. In her eyes, I am a failure. Shit. Well, it’s not a treasure map, but at least it’s honest.

     The actual letter is much different than any of that. It is sensitive and stilted, with an undertone of fear and at the same time an attempt to convince the reader of mom’s spiritual evolution and deep devotion to the church, God, all of it. All of it. I wish she hadn’t written the letter, and I wish I hadn’t gotten a copy. But I could never influence or control my mother. She was stubborn and opinionated and amazing and infuriating. Death comes, life ends, people should do what they want and not hurt each other. 

     I do know this: If you have something to say, say it while you’re alive. Do not try to communicate from the hereafter. Life isn’t a movie. Avoid mysticism and spiritual confusion. Just tell them. Make it easy and don’t sweat it. Just say it and move on. There may be consequences but speak up and say what you have to say. Tell everyone.

     Unless you have a treasure map.

Life Coaching - Part 1

    

     Are you disappointed in the direction your life has taken? Most people are. Most people should be. Perhaps you need…. A Life Coach. The term “Life Coach” was added to Webster’s dictionary in 2012 and is defined as an adviser who helps people make decisions, set and reach goals or deal with problems. Umm, OK.

     I know people who say they’re “certified” Life Coaches. Who the fuck certified them? The Life Coach Institute, I guess. The University of Bullshit. I mean what school offers courses in advice-giving and decision-making. Dealing with problems? Really?

     Here’s some advice. A bit of coaching from me. Be Careful. Life Coaches are a dime a dozen, coming outta the woodwork these days and many of the ones I know can’t maintain healthy relationships, are marginally employed, complain a lot but at the same time claim to be spiritual, godly, tuned into the universe, part of the cosmic ooze. Pretty much better and more enlightened than you. Because, I guess, they’ve had training and are certified. They use the word “heart” a lot. Heart’s desire, getting in touch with your heart, heart consciousness, whatever the hell that is. I used to have cardiac arrhythmia when I smoked. Is that heart consciousness?

     A friend who is a Life Coach recently posted an update on her website that I found curious. “You can make your dreams come true.” And, of course, She can help. For a fee. Make your dreams come true. How?

     Like, if you want it enough, it will happen. I hear that a lot, too. If you want something badly enough, you can get it. You can have success and prosperity.

     Wow. Do you really even want your dreams to come true? Do you remember your dreams?

     No, thank you.

     In the last dream I had, I was drunk as hell, it was Christmas and I was beating the shit out of my uncle Louie. It was a pretty goddamned wonderful dream. I woke up clear-headed and felt terrific. Fulfilled. Successful. Then I remembered that my uncle Louie, who was a total asshole, violent, psychotic and ignorant, had been dead for twenty years so there was no way that my dream could become a reality. Within a few minutes of awakening I went from feeling terrific, pounding the hell out of my uncle Louie, to being disappointed and depressed because it would never become true.

     I guess I’m a Life Coach. Really. I’m full of advice and I can help you make a decision. Apparently, that’s all the requirement to become certified. Here’s some advice for free, right now. If you are with a bunch of people in a car and you can’t figure out whether to go Right or Left and the passengers are arguing and bitching…. Go right. If you’re wrong, for Chrissakes turn around and go the other way. See, helpful advice. Life Coaching. You’re welcome.