It began as a pivot point. It was a dichotomy that I could not get away from.
I want to be writer and that thought places it out of my reach.
These words are not motives but I cannot grasp why I have trouble with them. I wanted nobodies help, but I needed an agent. Yet I only wrote a couple of pages a week. I told myself that I was famous and loud. I convinced myself that I was making a difference.
And then the Doctors told me I was. It was like finding out that a joke is a lie.
Youth is something that takes a long time to go through. The days seem to last forever while one is young. Later in life the days go faster and one has to grab tight just to catch up. This was the issue with my role in show business. I hadn’t toured nor played shows.
It was a simple metaphor and I motioned towards some grassy plain that led me home.
The trick was to find what was necessary.
So while smoking a cigarette I choose to reflect on my working life up until this point.
I am happy. Mental health nurses suggest that I am an acclaimed writer and musician and sometimes I take that to me I am a crime-solving Norse Devil requested who invented the clock. You know, some gonzo journalist of manic non-fiction.
But this is schizophrenia. Thus I took part in creating a man of limitless creative fodder.
I needed to be sent forward in a Martian landscape. I needed to try something new. That was my state of mania.
Ten years ago I thought that life would be much different than it is today. I thought that I would live perhaps in New York City, although I would have floated around asking some questions and I may have been eaten alive. This small town has continued to challenge me. I have many questions for the young and still relevant.
At 25, I get lost and depressed because I have not impacted the world in a positive way.
When payday comes around I wonder why it is I stay at this God forsaken coffee shop with manic friends exclaiming the invisible is to be trusted and those teachers at the psych ward are not.
In my mind, I am not successful. These teachers comment about how I write and laugh at the symbols that I leave on stages. These symbols are not seen, though when I transpose them to paper some find me enchanting. So the forces tell me I am successful at written words and music. I feel it is hard to write for nobody.
So it begs the question: Why do I act the way I do?
This is hard to answer because I cannot always be sure of how I am acting. I have a tendency to attribute traits to people and this reflects my affliction. I become embarrassed when I need to rescind these ideas. They are reflections of what I am doing at the time. This is sometimes a good thing because I create epic landscapes under the guise of someone I am not. The truth is I remain who I want to be.
But to be fair, I am not anyone special. I did not have puppets working for cameras as I took three weeks to paint the windows on a church. I was dancing around raising money for legal defense and charity with every intention in the world to save humanity.
I don’t know what the man who fired me saw, but I never got a job with him again.
So I played music instead. I fought impulses to drink because I knew that I was the only fool that could see that in me. But I told myself that I wanted to be a hero. I was not lazy. I wrote and played music all day. It became the woe of man. I had nothing that did not seem unreliable or partially faked. And I wanted to write, but I didn’t.
It began like this, but in the same breath these statements of guilt are usually crassly shouted at the innocent. Is this because it is easier to blame people that will fight back? Why do I allow these thieves into my space in the first place?
I have a tendency to postpone things that will make my life better and take the right way around the mountain while the hard worker will be the man who walks over it. The better sentence cannot be found by paraphrasing greater writers than me.
A wise man says, “He who does not imitate does not create.”
So I light another cigarette and wonder why I am happy with my accomplishments.
The silver lining on these clouds is apparent when I realize that I am doing everything right that could be done up until now. My goals have been met and I have reasons for stubbornly hoping that I am credited in my own time for my artistic work. They say that even Pablo Picasso needed to burn his own paintings to keep warm. I have no right to complain because I have everything I need.
But I jest because this topic warrants strange impulses towards a backlit porch I imagine. Unclear anarchy is not what I want to be remembered for.
The misplaced memories were self-induced thoughts that made this change of wind in my sails. For as long as I can recall I have wanted to be looked back upon in a shining light, doing something as important as inventing the clock. Is this my lack of hard work or do I not think highly enough of myself? Am I making a difference?
Hope is an odd emotion. It is as odd as thinking that there is life after death and you are on the latter’s side. You still exist in a world but all your work, friends and lovers are still sitting in the old world.
These works are not at issue now and I am glad that I have practiced my trade so much. I know that people do not need to read the ramblings of a loon unless he is claiming to be someone special. When I am writing about the sort of mind that I have, the inner trials of my long running and untreated schizophrenia, or the workings of my subconscious I soon repent and claim that I am not interesting and nobody cares.
But someone is reading it. And they will recall me as a hero of lighted strange paths who can help them through troubles by being insightful and leaving a trail of paper in the past. Have I done lots of writing about strange hands that lead with a loaded discussion? Or am I the turbulent man who said something that needed to be recorded with strange valor?
I am nothing but a Signal Hill reject and a member of Fancy or Jabberwocky or other such groups that I have heard about. The answer is that eternal questions should be thought about on Sunday and the rest of the time I need to be either typing or on the phone. I cannot be sure where I would be without my manias and it is best not to look.
I wish that I knew that I was some certain relocated old saint that had marked my mind with that pen stroke. It is a classic example: I am writing over these words in my mind because I think I’d be better off. And I have no right to complain because I am able to do this somehow.
But I was painting a church, not on television.
And what did I do to be murdered on stage?
These are delusions that I have gained critical acclaim and lost jobs for.
These words are lines that leave a simple platform. They mark my working life. I am a diligent worker. I hope that I one day will be what I want to see through when I watch while I grow. These changes are better than any of these edited lines that are marked and taken out.
If these poetic little pieces of nonsense are motions of old hearts somewhere then perhaps I am better for it. I am unsure if schizophrenia is a curse or a blessing. There are many reasons that I want to be like the rest and just accept work as something that has to be done. But I have just as many reasons to write and play music.
Sometimes I think that I should just pick one of my hobbies and make it my vocation. And other times I think that I have.