Great God, out of the blue (?), another freaking black rage of a depression! Oh, noes!
It was horrible. My life was an utter, abominable failure. I was as dysfunctional as if I’d just had brain surgery, which in a sense was true. My wife had an accompanist gig that evening, good thing for her, and as she left she drilled me straight in the eye and said, “I want you here when I come back. I’m serious!”
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You know what that means. “Here” as in relatively present in current time and space, able to converse. In my own skin. Not possessed, in other words. Lord knows I owed it to her, so after she left I tried to shed the invisible carapace by sheer force of will. It was no use. This required something like a two-by-four upside the head, metaphorically speaking, so I resorted to heavy sedation and headed for a hot bath with tequila in hand. Reclining in the long tub while turning red as a lobster, I contemplated the awfulness head on.
Yes, under my haphazard guidance, we had ended up in the middle of a desert without a home and hardly any resources. [Read all about it here.] Furthermore, none of the life-as-artist schemes I’d tried in my life had ever worked out beyond a certain point. All this was undeniably true and hard as hell to look at, but there it was: the curse had come true! They GOT me, I admitted to myself. They fucking GOT me, at least from a certain angle, and in a very big way. Oh, man. This is what you get on an emotional starvation diet, a really smart 64-year-old weirdo with no equity or 401k who’s wasted 20 lifetimes worth of creative energy trying to hide the shame. That’s like having a gasoline-powered radio in your car. The mother of all vicious circles!
So where did that leave me? Right there in the bathtub, that’s where. Here and now. And it isn’t a question of whether I’m good enough, I suddenly realized, it’s a question of what I can do. I’d used up all the programmed self-criticism, or rather, I now fully owned the result. Even though the effort nearly killed me, I looked it right in the face — my own! — and now there was nothing and nowhere to hide, not from me or anyone.
Aaagh! Or rather, “Bingo!”
I’ve always been an artist. I made that choice decades ago but never lived up to it, because I always felt I was supposed to be doing something else. I was never worthy. This one’s on the old man’s karma, but never mind, because I FIXED IT… How? By dragging us out to the middle of a fucking desert with no home and no money, that’s how! By having no fallback position. By putting myself in a situation where I had no choice but to take a raw look at what’s inside, what went down, and owning up to it.
They got me? I spent my whole life trying to escape from what was hurting me, and that’s how it turned out. Okay, fine. So NOW what?
What’s always been there is still there. Now I move, one step at a time. I don’t have to live up to anything, either. It’s not that what I can do now might or might not be “good enough,” it’s that what I can do is all there is. It’s all there ever was, and it’s still here.
So, strangely enough, am I…
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{ 4 comments… read them below or add one }
John,
I’ve been reading your blog off and on for about two weeks now. I am loving your irreverence and odd sense of humor which led me to buy your book, Buffalo Lights. I am loving the read, taking in bits of it daily like the morning coffee which awakens me.
Reading your blogs about “art guilt” have just about brought me to tears. I hate seeing people suffer and it sounds like your parents, not unlike so many others of their generation, were clueless about the damage they were inflicting. This is why we have highly paid psychologists forming the infrastructure of our modern daily lives. Because sometimes it is just too much to bear.
I want to make it better for you somehow by telling you that life just is. All the pretty houses, the 401ks, securities and fancy cars don’t leave with you when you go. They are just things we live with or don’t. But it sounds like you are finding your way to this thinking on your own. So just know there are others not unlike yourself, from our generation, floundering, wondering what happened to all the days. Sometimes I think it is just a part of evolution. Next life I’ll get it better. For now, I just take life a day at a time enjoying the hummingbirds, complaining about the bills, and living. Just living.
Some may think you crazy to have left for your life in Taos, I think you are brave. God bless!
Nancy, the wanna-be-artist
Hi Nancy, and thank you for your extended comment!
The art guilt posts are very important and point to a source of the harsh depressive episodes I’ve had for most of my life (although with decreasing frequency). I’m glad someone else gets something out of my writing about this, because I’m a firm believer in learning from the truth and not trying to cover it up. No anti-depressants for me — I need to see what’s going on!
As for bravery, my analyst said years ago that there was a fine line between bravery and foolishness, and I’m sure I’ve crossed it back and forth many times. However, as you say, what is, is, and one of the things that is, is that I am finally beginning to have some fun in the wake of all these internal revelations. The self-critic is thoroughly discredited and all out of time, anyway, so NOW the game begins anew. Heh.
Yes, there are a lot of us wondering what the hell happened. It seems really weird to me to finally understand so much, break free, and see that wrinkled wacko in the mirror! But that’s the way it is. This is perfect. I am who I am and nothing will stop me except my body giving out.
Mr. Farr: Your life is your art. I went to your site tonight after one after dinner out on the town (New York) where the autumn chill has set in and the streets are damp. I went to pick up a little touch of the Southwest and where a man I don’t know but occasionally read lives with his wife amidst Mother Nature’s bounty and beauty is everywhere. (I Know there is other stuff besides beauty). And the man who lives there sees it and shows it to me. And as a result I get a bit of respite from the chaos and hustle of the metropolis, just knowing that man’s out there living this life, like that. That’s art man. High, and big time. And I kinda think somewhere, at least somewhere down deep inside, you know it. Of course there’s your co-star artist, the lady who said Be Here When I Come Back. That made me laugh! Art and Gifts.
I loved the jackrabbit. I’d throw him a peach everyday.
DPC
Wow, I LOVE this comment! I remember you from way back, David. Yes, I guess my life is my art. That’s a great way to look at it. (My co-star wants a real closet and a dishwasher, so I guess I’ll have to sketch those in.) You’ve given me something to think about. Thank you.
Things are changing very fast here. I think I’m loading more paint on the brush. This post and the other recent ones are coming from a very different place. A BETTER place, more authentic and uncensored. I think I just woke up. What a hoot.
Come back again soon. I like thinking of someone in NYC reading these things.