25 October 2018

A Broom & a Pen

by Andrew

This is fresh, a thought popped into my head a bit earlier, I was buttering round the apartment, pacing like I do, it inspires my thinking, starts my mind spinning, some movement. On my little about page I have here on the site, I mention it. How I define myself as an artist, like announcing it for the first time I was, it was almost nearly 2 years ago now, how it felt like to say it, that I'm an artist, like a housewife.

I was back in Oregon at the time of writing that little about page, where I lived under very similar conditions as I do now. I'd quit the job there. I was nearly broke. But I had shelter accounted for for some time, some loot stashed away in the bank, accounted for only to pay the rent—& not much else. And I had all this time.

It was in Oregon, too, that I had that revelation, that I no longer want to be a writer, but I am a writer. So for those few months, that was my first little foray into this conscious life of a writer.

And here I am now. Very similar circumstances, a little more time bought for myself, which I came into this time fully aware, some shelter secured, that I am an artist, & that I fully mean to get my bread by it, or have none at all—P.R.N. Which, "artist" is a broad term. By it, I mean more specifically my form of art, writing. Though I do dabble in other arts here & there as I can, I have a propensity to, I was meant to be a creator, some form or another, so I use the term "artist" in general.

And here I am now, new town, new apartment. It's been about 2-&-a-half months. I've done more writing in these passed few months than I have in probably the passed 3 years combined. And that's all fine. I improve leaps-&-bounds by the week. It's a life-long pursuit. But I'm trying now to craft something together, here, that will maybe get me some bread. Which is a task, because I'm fairly honest with myself, & I know I'm not quite at the level I'd like to be, in order to release some piece I'd be proud of.

Though that's not even the thing, really, if I can be proud of it or not. I think my pride would be proportional to my success, certainly. And if it comes down to it, I'll release whatever I've got, here, whatever I can scrape together, in order to at least try to get something for it. Because it's back out on the bump I go again after this, if I can't afford this tiny, little life-style I have here anymore, if I run-out of money. Necessity will force my pen, whether I like it or not. Which really, it's doing now. But I've got some comfort ahead, however, for a bit, to craft this "necessity" into something of which I can at least be somewhat proud—whatever that entails, I've no idea.

Something like that it goes, I don't know. I have no idea what I'm doing here, really. I just write & write & write. I must anyway, to keep from going mad. It is my crutch, as necessary to me as air, food, & sleep. How communication is that hidden, often forgot, other need-of-survival, I had to discover it, & creation is communication, which to me is writing.

But for 2 days now, I've barely lifted the pen. And I feel criminal. The time is ticking.

I've had my feet kicked-up, lost in thought. I had to completely re-program there, I hit some choppy water, a cold re-boot. I've been savouring the deliciousness of that process, watching all these poisonous, crippling thoughts pass, waiting to re-discover that kernal, it takes some time, you come snapping-back, another layer peeled away, always stronger than before, it seems—if you don't lose yourself completely.

But I can't kick myself over this,—like I do—this waste of time in inactivity. I've scribbled at least some lines here & there, just to keep the scab fresh, true, but nothing of worth, of any importance.

But this is all a part of it, this life of a writer, of an artist. Some days it's not going to come. And you will lounge longer in bed, perhaps, because it's warm in there, & it's got so cold in the apartment, outside, otherwise, you miss lovely Summer so much, the warmth, the heat, so tired of being so cold all day already. You butter round not really doing much, maybe listening to a bit of music, or maybe in silence. Or you sit & listen to the cars pass by out there like waves, then you grab your hat & go for a stroll. You boil the water for tea, you sit sipping, the cool breeze blows through the window, the temperature a touch warmer in the middle of the day. You do the dishes. You clean a bit. You read here & there as you have a taste for it, roll a few cigarettes otherwise.

In short, you feel like a housewife. I didn't even realize when I wrote—though must have unconsciously, I suppose, had an inkling, what I meant by it. The rest of the world, they have their jobs & such to be at, they spin the wheel. All day they zoom, back & forth, zoom, zoom. But you got nowhere to go, nowhere to be, & you got all this time.

Though you do it too, you spin the wheel, but you do it differently. You're all-in, all or nothing. Get that wheel spinning, a little spittle on the chin, pacing round the room if you have to, & rip-off a few pages, if you can. You must eat, man! Even a housewife must get her dough to knead.

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