Clearly, my “little rant blog,” as tagged by a former lover a few hours ago, has been invoking reactions. There has been an occasional validation from complete strangers—young women, older wives, heartbroken lovers, married couples, and gay men—my adored readers continents and time zones away that make my artist’s ego revel in the illusionary and ever-so-fleeting thought of: “At least, my art matters!” It’s like honey to the inflamed larynx of a screaming revolutionary! But then: I get up again, at some ungodly hour of the morning, put the compliments in my back pocket, clock-in and begin at ground zero: Regardless the moody cunt of Inspiration, I publish prior to one of my four survival jobs.
The reaction of some friends and most exes, however, has been less than enamored:
“You’ve reality lost your humanity!” I found on my voicemail today. Try swallowing that pill with your morning coffee!
My art gone public has tested my comrades—people that have a certain degree of an in with me. Most have known me for years because, despite my wanderlust, I don’t lose track of human hearts. Sometimes, to my own fault (and to the expressed puzzlement of my beloveds), I’ve kept in touch with my exes, if only for the mere benefit of recollecting a mutual story down the road; because, despite being a storyteller, genetics have granted me with the most pathetic short-term memory. So, my people—are my memory keepers. As for the woman in me, the scorned lover gives room to forgiveness quite quickly. I accept the humanity of those who acted less than kindly in my past and eventually hear the long-awaited apology from them. But by then, the forgiveness has already been granted pro bono, and I’ve moved on—to other loves and newer pages.
For years, I have written in silence. Years! It was a closeted activity—like a mute’s challenge to the world every morning. During those forming years in New York City and LA-LA Land, my people would chime in:
“What are you doing with your life?”
“What are you doing with all these jobs?!”
And my favorite: “You know what you should do?,” followed by an array of unrequested advice.
Well, here I am, comrades, I thought on the first of this year: Finally, doing it, just like y’all recommended! I am not half-ass-ing it either! I am not working on the next Good Will Hunting as every other regular at my local Starbucks, praying to be discovered by an accidental agent ordering his or her morning latte. I am not venting to some similar wannabe at a late night dingy dive, both of us getting lost in a forest of empty beer bottles. Neither am I drowning in depression while listening to my friends’ rants on the topics of casting scams and shady agents. I don’t pity them—or myself—during the self-loathing routines about being insignificant. Instead of wasting my breath on “What I’m gonna do”—I fucking do! And I tell my colleagues to do the same.
“So, here I am,” I thought, on day one of 2011…
Oh, but what’s this? Silence and spite?! Didn’t expect that!
Forty days and forty-some blogs later, some of my people are falling by the wayside: Shocker! All those well-wishers with written proposals on my predestined career paths—have suddenly gotten quiet. Where the fuck did they all go?! As for my formerly beloveds, suddenly my friendship they’ve been “so grateful for” is not something they can handle:
“You just sound so angry and hurt,” they attempt to hide behind another set of fake intentions.
No fucking shit, Sherlock, I’m angry! But please do me a favor and keep the pity card in your own stack. If you’re suffering the stings of your guilty conscience or fear of being exposed—despite the anonymity of my blog’s characters—don’t project your shit onto me. I’ve moved on, remember? I am NOT interested in your apology—just your kindness. Or your friendship. But if you must run away, I must thank you for exposing that your love for me was never unconditional; that my success was not one of your interests; that to this day, you haven’t learned the lesson and remained equally self-involved as you were back in your selfish twenties. Do move on, my darlings—and although disappointed, I mean it in the best of ways: God bless—and get the fuck out! Another forty days and forty-some blogs later, I hope to find myself surrounded by the selected and the stubborn few who’ve made the wellness of my heart and the success of my work their daily prayer. Those who behold for me, never calculating in the “what-if” of my failure—just because it’s not a fucking option!—those are welcome to come along.
As for my “little rant blog” to myself, it goes like this:
You’re an artist, bitch! It’s hard! The competition is brutal. The jobs are few and far between. You work your ass off at some part-time gig where you’re painfully overqualified and underpaid; but when the morning comes—you better start your saleswoman routine again, doing enough legwork to earn permanent calluses on your feet and bruises on your knuckles from knocking on doors. This ain’t your little home village in the Motha Fuckin’ Russia, where you were the prettiest and the smartest girl! There are thousands like you here! And another thousand on the next day’s Greyhound! Some hotter and smarter and better equipped, with mamas and papas to support their dreams. So, the only way to make it past the depression and the competition and the rejection and the loneliness—is to keep going! Failure—is not an option here, as your actual friends will remind you.
As for the white noise of the well-wishers and the manipulations by other cowardly hearts: “What’ya say? I can’t hear you!”