There’s something happening lately – forgive my hippy sensibilities but I attribute it to the end of the winter solstice. Never mind the whys, point is, it feels like the bleeding, infected openings of fresh wounds are everywhere. Artists I love are committing suicide (Mark Linklaus of Sparklehorse. Why, Mark? I loved you.) I have been of late obsessed with the remembering of other artists I’ve known and loved that went the same way: David Foster Wallace, Elliot Smith, Richard Brautigan, countless others I’m forgetting. Even if they made it through without dying (Thom Yorke, Charlie Kaufman) we’re all so fucking sad. And it’s abundantly clear that making great art can’t save us. Writers, artists, musicians, we’ve got to get this through our head. First of all, fuck your ambition, it’s gross. You’re probably not going to “make it.” Second of all, if you “make it” it’s not going to make you happy.
So that’s art and that’s just a small piece of what I’m talking about. Some people go so far as to say the only real impetus to even make art is to be desired, or to put it crudely, to get laid. Simplistic? Yes. Annoying? Yes. I would agree only in so much as it seems to me that lots and lots of things stem from a striving to be loved, and wanted, and understood. And we go into this world so fresh and bright eyed and bushytailed, and if we were lucky our parents didn’t horribly hurt us, so we expect that the world is not a dangerous place, and then we get to find out we’re wrong! Fun!
But I hang with weirdos, freaks, and otherwise doomed persons, so most of our parents did hurt us. I don’t know, let’s say for example your father left when you were three years old, and he never explained why, but he came back sporadically and gave you love sometimes. You might go shopping around to have that experience repeated in every single man you meet, because that’s what you think love is. And whoever these men are, they have their own perception of love based on whatever their mothers did to them, and then you pile into bed and make some disgusting soup of a relationship until you can’t take it anymore. Just for example.
Oh my god I don’t know what I’m saying. It just seems so out there lately. Everyone’s pain seems raw and on the surface, and I feel weirdly psychically in tune with all of it. I feel like I could look at a waitress on the other side of the restaurant, and I could say to her: “so your Dad was a sex addict and you found the S&M polaroids in a shoebox in the closet when you were 6, and that’s why you want to cringe every time your boyfriend touches you?” Are any of you out there having a similar experience?
Oh, me. I love men that don’t love me back. Men and women love me that I can’t love. We’re all like dogs chasing cars, what the fuck will we do when we catch them?
Anyway, it’s the end of the solstice. We’re shedding our winter skin and it’s like peeling a band-aid. Things are going to get better for us. If we could just learn to love each other without all these chips on our shoulders that are really more like anvils, eh? That would be nice.