transmothra (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
transmothra) wrote2002-10-23 03:45 pm
transmothra) wrote2002-10-23 03:45 pm
(no subject)
i feel as if i were caught, trapped in some kind of clutch, some ingenious Greek design as in Daedalus's labyrinth for Minos' bastard Minotaur (am i a hideous minotaur? truly a bastard i be, hidden away from my roots for years eating only the good things which have been sent unto me), or perhaps it is Dionysius' sword hanging above me, he asking me 'o Damocle, quoniam te haec vita delectat, ipse eam degustare et fortunam experiri meam?' as i marvel at how easy it is to be centuries dead... what is this jackboot upon my long and emptiful head? i feel the need to go forth, to seek out new places and people, new city-flavors, to boldy go where my self hasn't gone before. but i can't seem to get my boots out from the sand i've been playing in.
maybe i'm just afraid i'll spend up all that's left of my money (financial resources; no income to speak of besides a couple hundred bucks a month out of the kindness of my grandfather), which isn't much now, and won't be able to have any more adventures for so very long that it would be better to wait and lie dormant until something good happens to me instead of me happening to something good. but crap! how lonely and irritable a thought that is! surely there is some way that i can both do and prepare for doing, at once.
so i write? make music? who will buy my book? the same five people who bought my last CD? i want not to see another such grand failure again, it is only fulfilling the angry prophecies of that same grandfather, who always insisted that i can never be right, and that being creative is foolish when there's good solid honest macho toil that can always be done. one can still be seared and suffer, whether it is the back or the soul that longs for peace; it is one or the other, or even both, should one prefer. i would rather suffer and die under the weight of brightly-hued prose than with a rented shovel on my belt and somebody else's shit under my fingernails. i would rather stare into the eyes of god for a second for a song than win such deities' grace, eternal though it be, by burning my body and dissolving my bones in sweat and toil.
shit, i am looking for an easy way out. i am insanely jealous of all those others who never had to bust their asses for years until they sit up late at night crying and holding knives to their already-bleeding hearts. i don't want to play that awful game anymore. it is a farce, and the joke is on the proletariat, the working-class types, destined to either let it end them up in the grave, or on skid row, or both. the rulers of this weird wasteland of tyranny and greed and drive-through greaseshacks only want us to bleed a little more, a little more. for merriment or money? or just to keep us docile and too tired to rise up against their terrible maya?
why can't i look in the sunday classified and see a listing for "creative writers needed. no professionals need apply. $10.50 plus medical, dental, etc." or under "painters needed," read also: "all styles welcome." why can't i answer an ad for backpacking across the Himalayas? for cataloguing the ancients sites of Greece? how come there seems to be no creative help needed? it's been now eleven years since i got my certification in audio engineering, and there isn't even a recording studio on the planet that literally "hires" people.
i need a sunnier clime so i can work outdoors without this gouty finger pain, at least. it always gets much worse in the cold, and when seasons change.
maybe i'm just afraid i'll spend up all that's left of my money (financial resources; no income to speak of besides a couple hundred bucks a month out of the kindness of my grandfather), which isn't much now, and won't be able to have any more adventures for so very long that it would be better to wait and lie dormant until something good happens to me instead of me happening to something good. but crap! how lonely and irritable a thought that is! surely there is some way that i can both do and prepare for doing, at once.
so i write? make music? who will buy my book? the same five people who bought my last CD? i want not to see another such grand failure again, it is only fulfilling the angry prophecies of that same grandfather, who always insisted that i can never be right, and that being creative is foolish when there's good solid honest macho toil that can always be done. one can still be seared and suffer, whether it is the back or the soul that longs for peace; it is one or the other, or even both, should one prefer. i would rather suffer and die under the weight of brightly-hued prose than with a rented shovel on my belt and somebody else's shit under my fingernails. i would rather stare into the eyes of god for a second for a song than win such deities' grace, eternal though it be, by burning my body and dissolving my bones in sweat and toil.
shit, i am looking for an easy way out. i am insanely jealous of all those others who never had to bust their asses for years until they sit up late at night crying and holding knives to their already-bleeding hearts. i don't want to play that awful game anymore. it is a farce, and the joke is on the proletariat, the working-class types, destined to either let it end them up in the grave, or on skid row, or both. the rulers of this weird wasteland of tyranny and greed and drive-through greaseshacks only want us to bleed a little more, a little more. for merriment or money? or just to keep us docile and too tired to rise up against their terrible maya?
why can't i look in the sunday classified and see a listing for "creative writers needed. no professionals need apply. $10.50 plus medical, dental, etc." or under "painters needed," read also: "all styles welcome." why can't i answer an ad for backpacking across the Himalayas? for cataloguing the ancients sites of Greece? how come there seems to be no creative help needed? it's been now eleven years since i got my certification in audio engineering, and there isn't even a recording studio on the planet that literally "hires" people.
i need a sunnier clime so i can work outdoors without this gouty finger pain, at least. it always gets much worse in the cold, and when seasons change.