December 12, 2014
“I go dreaming into the future, where I see nothing, nothing. I have no plans, no idea, no project, and, what is worse, no ambition.” The emptiness I try to transform it into something of “vague” just so I can see its form in some fashion or another. The fear I have is that I will only see a blank canvas in front of me, and I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to fill that void. It is not merely the object that’s in front of me, but also what it says about myself. Nothing. When I do die, and I will, I plan to put the Japanese kanji 無 on my tombstone, which means “nothingness. ”
“Go on - but don’t think you can kill my confidence. I’ve had experts doing it for years.” Sometimes that is all I think I have, surely not talent. Asking me as a working writer (ha!) “what I think about critics is like asking a lamp-post what it feels about dogs.” The hardest part in my life is waking up in the morning and facing the day knowing that more likely it will be a form of failure in some way. A British playwright once was quoted as saying “There’s no such thing as failure - just waiting for success.” If that’s the case, I have been waiting for a long time. It is difficult to continue to tell people that you’re working on a project, yet, no one sees it. Therefore it doesn’t exist. Yet, I swear it does exist because it is right here in front of me. What will take courage on my part is realizing that the work won’t change my life, nor my lack of fortune. I will always be at the mercy of kindness - but that is only dished out a few times of the year. The rest of the time is preparing oneself for bed, knowing the next day will bring no fresh fruit, but rotten food to the table.
“I wanted things that I couldn’t at times articulate.” Bread, butter and a piece of fruit - perhaps a glass of wine or two. “Basically, I’m for anything that gets you through the night - be it prayer, tranquilizers or a bottle of Jack Daniels.” I want to travel gently into the night, but the way my world is made-up, it is more likely a series of car accidents. The broken romances, are painful, because they represent a sense of hope - but alas, it turns into someone’s cigarette smoke. As you watch the smoke, it is like a staircase going up to the ceiling, and then noticing it that it will disappear into the air. The point of no return is when I notice that there is nothing in the back of me, and in front, is that void. All my senses tell me to jump ahead and to take the chance that is in front of me. “The one way of tolerating existence is to lose oneself in literature as in a perpetual orgy.” My only hope is that salvation or a series of moments where I will shine. Otherwise it is being grateful for the rotten food on my table.