Darkness
I told myself yesterday, since I'm in the middle of two projects and have the day off today, that I would wake up and write a quick story for Slippy Magazine, the place where I've been publishing on and off for the past year. Just prior to moving to San Francisco I sent an email to the managing editor and told him my goal for the next two months would be to finish a story a week. At the time it seemed reasonable, and I thought it would be a great catalyst to another collection of stories, which I've already begun running my mouth about. Although I've told myself time and time again not to promise things I can't deliver, I really thought I could make it happen, and the disappointment yesterday when I realized that I had in fact not completed one story, let alone the six that I assumed would be done by now, forced me to look in the mirror and say, hey dude, it's time to get back on track.
Needless to say I couldn't sleep last night (I watched six episodes of The Shield before my eyes finally closed), and didn't wake this morning until 9:30, and when I did everything was so cloudy in my brain that the idea of doing anything but returning a few emails and sending out an invoice to one of my freelance clients became overwhelmingly obvious. It sucks because I have the best of intentions often but can't always guarantee that my mind will be sharp, and for that, today feels like a huge disappointment, one that makes me not want to go outside, at least until the darkness recedes. Of course eventually when I finally shower and get going and see how beautiful the weather is, I'll make my way out, perhaps even snap a photo or two or make my way to the Giants game again tonight, but I still can honestly say that something has felt off lately, at least in the past three days, and I don't quite know what it is, which is scary. My bank account is dwindling and even when I don't eat out I end up dropping a hundred on medication for the next month, and the idea of developing any more film seems a distant fantasy, let alone paying for the promotion of this fucking book, which has to be ready soon. (Or so I think.) And don't get me started about the girl I met Tuesday night at the Giants' game, the one I've been too dazed to call in fear that I'll blow it and ruin the great dynamic we shared, even if it only lasted three innings, and even if her soon to be ex-boyfriend was right there next to us (it all started when he made a beer run and didn't return for an hour). It's funny because sometimes I think I'd rather just believe in the fantasy instead of actually making the effort to see if there's something there, because it always seems to lead to more disappointment or new forms of drama, and I just can't handle any more drama at the moment.
Anyway, I don't know why I'm sharing this with you. It's just that, after reading about Daniel Johnston and his prodigious output, how he chronicled his whole life on audiotape or in drawings or songs or even on Super-8 film - every fucking little hurtful detail, the idea that this is why I have this site - or why I create in general - became painfully obvious. I wish I could say all of this is going to lead to big things, or that the new book will be this underground sensation, but that's not really why I sit down to work every day, and it would be doing myself a disservice if I believed anything different. I think I just have this obsession with making sense of the world - at least the one I see through these eyes - and if nobody ever takes interest or the highlight of my career is the emails I get from people who dig what I'm doing (or from former students), or the fact that I can sell a hundred copies of my book on Amazon, well, so be it. Perhaps when I'm old or gone, some kid in a university library will stumble across my work - somehow, someway - and it will inspire him to go on with life, or even better, to sit down and create something beautiful, and that image alone is enough to handle days like this, when I'm just not able take charge of things, and I have my doubts if I ever will again.
Needless to say I couldn't sleep last night (I watched six episodes of The Shield before my eyes finally closed), and didn't wake this morning until 9:30, and when I did everything was so cloudy in my brain that the idea of doing anything but returning a few emails and sending out an invoice to one of my freelance clients became overwhelmingly obvious. It sucks because I have the best of intentions often but can't always guarantee that my mind will be sharp, and for that, today feels like a huge disappointment, one that makes me not want to go outside, at least until the darkness recedes. Of course eventually when I finally shower and get going and see how beautiful the weather is, I'll make my way out, perhaps even snap a photo or two or make my way to the Giants game again tonight, but I still can honestly say that something has felt off lately, at least in the past three days, and I don't quite know what it is, which is scary. My bank account is dwindling and even when I don't eat out I end up dropping a hundred on medication for the next month, and the idea of developing any more film seems a distant fantasy, let alone paying for the promotion of this fucking book, which has to be ready soon. (Or so I think.) And don't get me started about the girl I met Tuesday night at the Giants' game, the one I've been too dazed to call in fear that I'll blow it and ruin the great dynamic we shared, even if it only lasted three innings, and even if her soon to be ex-boyfriend was right there next to us (it all started when he made a beer run and didn't return for an hour). It's funny because sometimes I think I'd rather just believe in the fantasy instead of actually making the effort to see if there's something there, because it always seems to lead to more disappointment or new forms of drama, and I just can't handle any more drama at the moment.
Anyway, I don't know why I'm sharing this with you. It's just that, after reading about Daniel Johnston and his prodigious output, how he chronicled his whole life on audiotape or in drawings or songs or even on Super-8 film - every fucking little hurtful detail, the idea that this is why I have this site - or why I create in general - became painfully obvious. I wish I could say all of this is going to lead to big things, or that the new book will be this underground sensation, but that's not really why I sit down to work every day, and it would be doing myself a disservice if I believed anything different. I think I just have this obsession with making sense of the world - at least the one I see through these eyes - and if nobody ever takes interest or the highlight of my career is the emails I get from people who dig what I'm doing (or from former students), or the fact that I can sell a hundred copies of my book on Amazon, well, so be it. Perhaps when I'm old or gone, some kid in a university library will stumble across my work - somehow, someway - and it will inspire him to go on with life, or even better, to sit down and create something beautiful, and that image alone is enough to handle days like this, when I'm just not able take charge of things, and I have my doubts if I ever will again.
posted by Rob Simons at 11:13 AM
1 Comments:
Chin up, brother!
d
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