Warning: some foul language
There is never enough time. To keep a house tidy, to eat properly, to clean, to talk to M. about her day at school, to help the boys after school. Never enough time to talk, it’s so tiring, exhausting, who’d want to talk? (read: I am tiring and exhausting, not a surprise). Never enough time to clarify, to rectify, to devise a cunning plan to be able to speak and actually be heard. Never enough time to work on your dreams, and who cares about those dreams anyway? Most people compromise and never get their dream done, and I thought I was one of those who never compromised. That I was! I was, and it came with a price. Price usually pretty huge I paid every single time, but you know what? Despite the massive price, the things I decided of my own hunch and my own thought patterns, those same thought patterns people can’t cope with, can’t keep up with, can’t understand, they shake their heads, they cry in frustration trying to explain… those, those thought patterns led me to actions I do NOT regret. What I do regret, are the actions taken to follow guidance, to follow what I thought was judgement better than mine, to follow someone else’s wisdom, to not be told once again what the hell man you’re nuts! irresponsible! uncaring and selfish! you just don’t care!
I may erase this tomorrow but I need to speak out. I pretend to talk to a phantom-like being who has been with me throughout the years, who has seen me grow, evolve, go nuts, tear up the world and put it back together over and over again. A couple of people… only a couple of people are left who have known me long enough and relatively close enough to have an idea, some idea. Even they do not know all that there was to me. That there was. Now there is someone struggling to do their best, by the people she loves. I do try, and I make mistakes because of that. One tends to think of what those mistakes are and perhaps they’ d never expect that the mistakes in the end would be the greater sacrifices they did not make.
What is art? A lovely guy who works with me saw me with my black book and crayons and saw what I was drawing and said did you draw that? (with apparent admiration). I said yes. He said so, are you an artist? I said no, I just saw the book, got the crayons to complement those my friend gave me, and I do love to draw, create patterns, see what i come up with, match colours. Ok I see, he smiles, and understands: indeed, I am not an artist. Then I pause, and think to myself: why not? most artists so-called are unpaid for their art, so it’s not about being paid for it, so why are they artists and I’m not? Because they do better? Because they have studied traditional art and then, and only then, decided to create scribbles?
I am not a writer. but I wrote a novel, and in the years, if you count all the diaries and notebooks and letters I have written, I could probably go round the world. But I am not a writer. I write at any chance I get, which admittedly lately I’m not getting. I write! But I’m not a writer.
Then it dawned on me: you are what you name yourself.
Should I die trying to be one? Should I quit my job and become an artist and argue my case that as I only draw, and not work, I am therefore an artist, show me some respect?
should I quit my job, quit my husband, disappoint my children, live with the harsh criticism of everyone around me, the but./.. but/… s, the how can you? are you stupid or something? the why? why?? and why here, on the blog! why even consider these thoughts? work it out. don’t do it. don’t be an idiot. ungrateful bitch. and so on, and so forth.
who am i to preach to so many friends and so many people that you should do what you feel is right, what your heart tells you? how can i say that? you can call me many things, but one of the things that winds me up the most is when some poor sod who doesn’t know me very well calls me a hypocrite. a HYPOCRITE? Me!? I always live by what i preach, always. the complexity of the choices one must make when beloved adored children and involved make some choices tougher than others. it’s easy to choose when you’re put in front of a decision. but when yourself and everyone admits you are just looking for trouble, looking for an excuse to make that decision, feeling dissatisfied whenever anyone advises the solution you FEEL is not right, then it’s harder. because i know, better than most [people, better than most people who have only had ten or less opportunities in their lives to royally fuck something up, i know that all decisions that lead to freedom and being true to yourself carry an enormous price tag. loneliness, criticism, pain, financial and practical difficulties, accidents, heartbreak, even death sometimes (others’: freedom is life).
I believe in the words i posted somewhere here on this blog about being vulnerable, and true. who cares, what should and should not be discussed “[publicly”, on a blog, who cares about he so called bloody netiquette, age appropriate, old gracefully, be elegant. who cares? if you do, i’m sorry, shut the page now and leave.
more people I even care to remember have used my openness about stuff against me, one way or another. I should have learnt by now to keep my mouth shut (or my laptop). but no, I persevere, because I have the feeling opf someone inside me yelling at me, that if I am to live constantly trying to be the good and pleasant girl (no longer a girl) who doesn’t piss anybody off, let anyone down, i will have spent the second half (hopefully) of my life just attempting to be someone I am not. Who am I to bring up my children according to my own principles, if i renounce them so very soon? Yes it is soon, 40, above 40? That’s nothing. You should see the people who come to the shop, how cool they are, despite being decrepit (some of them).
I can still do some damage, it’s never my intention to do so but you cannot separate My Mr Hyde from the Dr Jeykill. I am both and the sum of both and sometimes we multiply and yell at your face and are thoroughly unpleasant. But I want to see where that combo, that duo, that merger is going, and not a pale an constantly frustrated and saddened and angry simulacron of myself always trying, constantly trying, to be a good girl.
I have failed to do it for so many years, but I have been so good at stuff I can feel proud of. I am not proud of myself right now. i am surviving, trying hard, to be what i am not, for the intentions are good, and the heart is in the right place.
So many people fuck up stuff that is really good unknowingly, unwittingly, irresponsibly, because they can’t be bothered, they are indifferent, they couldn’t care less, they are selfish. I may (or may not) be fucking stuff up in full knowledge, and after careful, long, extensive and painful consideration. In full acceptance that but a few will (may) understand my motives.
I can fuck things up in full knowledge that I will regret it majestically, be embarrassed profusely with anybody I speak to, will be berated and cast off by some, will always be the one that will be held responsible, the one at fault. I have a fairly good awareness of the price I’ll pay (I’d pay), I can only hope and pray that it won’t be higher than that, that it won’t involve innocent ones.
These are my thoughts right now. tomorrow morning, they may be completely different. but by then, it may be too late to take them back. Or not.