well, for one, i am happy to have dreamweaver back.

the days have been heavy and somewhat hard, interspersed with moments of rapture or realization or determination.  there have been points of no hope.
there's been a lot of me being overly dramatic for not much of a reason...but are any of us surprised about that?

i'm looking forward to going back in my diary and my poetry book and fishing out stuff to fill in the gaps.  i remember i was planning on doing just that back in the day, in the dark spaces of time between early 2005 and summer 2006, and after, when time was more persistent than i was.  it happens.  now i'm back.  but i said a few interesting things between now and then, so i will be persistent.

currently, the question i woke with is: why is it so hard to do what you love to do and get paid for it?  i can never seem to make those meet.  if i go too far along the line of responsible (rest assured it's not very far at all), suddenly art knocks on my door and says, i'm yours if you still want me.  but all that responsible shit you've been doing?  the money you've been saving for a vacation, the hopeful apartment hunt, the promises to pay off debt?  wave 'em goodbye and come with me.

i try to be smart about it.  will this be worth the sacrifice, the wistful glancing around my little, somewhat dingy room and thinking of that one place i could be living in if only i worked more?  will this actually further my career?  will i learn something from it?  will i meet someone through it?  the answers to all these questions is most likely: who the hell knows.

but i feel good about this one; at least, i think i would if the general stress of goodbye-waving didn't get in the way.  in fact, when i see it from a certain light, i think of all the responsible stuff i've been doing has been more of pussyfooting around when i would be better off working less and arting more.

and there's always the kickstart remembering that i could be far away from all this, with a job with promotions or a husband with offspring.  i have no reason to think i'd be happy, much less happier.

this is the qualm of the modern working artist.  if you're not born into money, you're kind of screwed.
but as long as you're still happier having drunk the psychedelic kool-aid (the broke kool-aid), it winds up working itself out.

i keep myself busy, and hope that the business isn't only running in circles.  i'm not getting any younger, you know.
and i wonder when i started saying that to myself.  you're not getting any younger.  as if i'm halfway to my grave, as opposed to the probable one-third into my grave.
uh.

i skinned my knee something awful the other day; was fucking around on my bike and biffed it.  one knee took the weight (and, this being the second time this year i really gave it a hit and then didn't ice it after, my left knee will probably be the first that needs replacing) and the other gave all its skin to the curb.  giant red hole straight through, muscle must be awfully close, and then bone.  i'm frankly a little amazed that it can heal itself.  sure, i've been pouring on the products to clean it, and sanitize it, and prevent infection and now prevent scarring, but all this time the little platelets and white blood cells have been diligently working with, as far as i know, no judgement against me.

this is a fun game i play - whether my parts are at all aware of their boss.  when my stomach is cramping because i ate the most ridiculous combination of food and drink, or when my legs cry out through nerve paths every time i use them because the previous day i pushed them so hard, or every time i hit my head, i imagine parts of my body grumbling to themselves, or out-and-out screaming up at me, "what the fuck??  could you STOP?!?"  but so far, they don't seem to care.

this leads me to believe that i, too, shouldn't care too much about my lack of fun toys, lots of room...security...
because, at the end of the day, i'm doing my own thing and walking my own path, and i am doing that because i honestly and truthfully think and hope and even believe that i was put here, with my grandly functioning body, to make a little art and a few statements before i die.  that the money doesn't mean enough to compromise this artmaking desire.  and that i will complain to myself, but i will carefully pick my times to look up at God, dionysus, the late-night sky, and beg for help or at least relief.  there are worse things than me.

although, a little help down here would be nice.  just saying.

the sun is hot and the air is stiff and alive.  i've been out biking around, running errands, yelling at the cars trying to run me over.  i love summer, i really do.  and, again, i'm thankful i'm not behind a desk.  memories of sitting in the box office in the lobby of the little theater outside la, watching the sunlight on the hardwood floors, watching as it slowly moved from one side of the room to the other, taunting me: there goes another day of your existence...

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