Depression/Van Gogh

"The whore in question has more of my sympathy than my compassion.

Being a creature exiled, outcast from society, like you and me who are artists, she is certainly our friend and sister.

And in this condition of being an outcast she finds - just as we ourselves do - an independence which is not without its advantages after all, when you come to think of it. So let's beware of assuming an erroneous attitude by believing that we can do her a service by means of a social rehabilitation which for that matter is hardly practicable and would be fatal to her.

... And meanwhile I am in my own hide, and my hide within the cog-wheels of the Fine Arts, like corn between the mill-stones."
-- letters of Vincent Van Gogh

Every day I wake up at 7 and stare at the beautiful little study I set up for myself. I have everything I need to write, barring motivation and inspiration. I have an outline completed-- entirely completed in detail-- for a novella worth writing, if I could only manage to begin it properly. This period of stasis has been in effect for three weeks, and I am not exaggerating when I say it is crushing my spirit to an almost fatal degree. I am a stripper/artist creating no art at present, which means I am, right now, simply a stripper. And single. And relatively poor. At 28. Sigh.

The most difficult thing with which to reconcile myself is that I am secure in my ability to bring forth meaningful artistic output when I do work with a sense of purpose and energy, having done so before-- it is my inability to focus and make a start that is driving me utterly mad. Is it my dancing job that makes me so scattered and unfocused these days? I have a thousand beautiful words and images floating around in my perpetually exhausted brain. I have asked everyone for advice--

"Should I vary my process? What would you do?" I ask, time and again.

"Don't force it," they answer in universal consensus, often followed by:

"Maybe you need a new Muse."

Fine. Where is a reliable one to be found? After all, it's hard to know when a person, place or thing is going to suddenly be eclipsed out of one's life, or abandon one. I am here, open and waiting for the grace of God to deliver me from this state of unbearable tension. If I am created in God's own image, I must similarly be a creator, myself-- in capacity if not actuality (at present). I will pray quietly with gratitude that I have life, no matter if I am as a dam blocked by silt and rotting vegetation for the moment. Sadly, neither life nor the grace of God is granted the sensual, I am told-- I who dwell in the sensual realm more than in the temple invisible of the Holy Spirit these days. I must be the enemy of my own art. It must be so, for neither lack of God nor of opportunity is present.

This week both of my little fish died. I was feeling miserable before, but now I am also disgusted. Taking the rotting little bodies out of the tank was an ordeal. I couldn't eat and consequently felt faint at work, which was relatively very unprofitable for a Friday due to the rain pouring down in buckets.

I was propositioned by two married men in a very serious way in the span of about 16 hours, which made me sadder than ever.

I have taken to reading the letters of Van Gogh with great empathy. We apparently have much in common with a couple of minor disparities: he was a genius and actually able to produce works of art with regularity, despite his personal difficulties, whereas I am a dilettante who cannot do much except take my clothes off for money and elicit/solicit praise 24 hours a day.

Note to self: without his canvasses Van Gogh would have been just another poor, socially retarded redhead with a history of mental illness, somewhat similar to myself.

I must remember it's our work that defines us, and neurosis is never charming...

Old Age/Narcolepsy/Owl

That the life of man is but a dream, many a man has surmised heretofore; and I, too, am everywhere pursued by this feeling.
--Goethe, "The Sorrows of Young Werther"

Whether it's because I have a fever (again), or because I am just lately conducting my life as a sort of waking lucid dream, I find formerly harsh and immutable things soft, filmy and agreeable this evening.

Example:





I looked at my favorite birthday cards from the other day and came to terms with being a year older in a fairly peaceful manner. I tried to be grateful for the love the cards represent at the total exclusion of fretting over the old age they herald and very nearly succeeded. This is a big milestone. I have often thrown my birthday cards away as soon as they were opened. Hopefully that phase of childish (not to be confused with childlike) behavior is over.

Today is one of those days I could not fully wake up, no matter how hard I tried, until after 2pm. I had been up since 8, doing little chores and then periodically tumbling back to bed face-down, trying not to resort to drinking caffeine, and ultimatelly decided to be very happy about having a day off no matter how I spent it.

I remember initially hearing the word "narcolepsy" from a doctor's lips with a lot less trepidation than I had initially heard"clinical depression". That's the difference between 25 and 17, I suppose. These things all seem to work out in the end, and both have become livable conditions for me, even if medicine hasn't done me much lasting good. I wonder what it would be like to intimately know someone else who has a sleeping disorder. I have depressed friends, but their sleep patterns are normal. Maybe some day...

Megan and I meditated at her apartment this evening. Afterward my fever came back.


I drew this owl today. Lately I find drawing enjoyable again for the first time in years. I can't wait to get the rust off my all my latent creative faculties and really get in gear.

PS I hope I'm well enough to go to work tomorrow. Strippers don't get sick pay.

Lonely At Home/Romance in Modern Brooklyn

I wish the composure but not the depression of solitude.
--Poe

Although I love spending quiet time on my own, I don't like living alone very much. With a couple of miserable exceptions, I've always lived with one girl at a time-- wry, skinny worry-worts who were gone all the time (that's my type of girl), but the idea that I'd see my roommate at least a couple of times a week always eased my mind and made me feel less isolated. In fact, until recently I've NEVER had a problem with loneliness WHATSOEVER, but these days I feel it descend on me like a heavy mantle fairly often.

What changed? Maybe my youthful optimism is being dampened slightly by the fact that I have been putting myself through the wringer coast to coast for a few years now. Maybe I feel so over-exposed from working in the sex industry I don't have the energy to emotionally bare myself after I leave work. Maybe I'm sick at heart, sick to death, sick and now scared of being an old maid. I know a person has to work pretty hard to maintain total disconnection from fellow humans in the NYC area, so I'm going to have to take responsibility for my condition when it gets totally intolerable, an eventuality which seems to be on the horizon. I know I'll only receive as much love as I give, so once I respect the immutability of that eternal equation and stop complaining, things will change. Maybe I just find romance in being miserable lately?! I need to pray about that one, what a waste of God-given life, which should be so full of joy...

Anyway, living alone on the second floor of a rambling old three-story house seems unnatural. Houses should be full of life and activity.

I rent my new place from a good friend... he's still renovating the first floor and basement, and his brother and father help him out. We all get along very well, and, when I need a break from the chaos in my brain and long to accomplish some innocent, tangible and constructive task, I ask him to teach me how to lay wall tiles or parquet flooring. He is, perhaps, the most honorable man I've ever met. I appreciate the company, and so does he...

I adore his wife, too. He's Peruvian, she's Hasidic, or was when they met... every time some guy doesn't call me and I start making excuses for him, I remember my friend's love story, and how he spotted his future bride on the train and knew no matter what, he was going to be with her EVEN THOUGH SHE WASN'T EVEN ALLOWED TO TALK TO HIM. He must have felt as though he was hit with a hammer the first time he saw her. He never let her go, that's for sure. What they must feel when they look at one another... I can sense it sometimes, but the inner reality must be paradise. They're the happiest couple I've ever met. She's a blunt person with a lot of integrity, which I admire-- being nobody's fool is one of Barbara's specialties.

Today I made everyone chocolate chip/hazlenut/coconut cookies and put hers in little heart-shaped tart forms. They gamely tolerate my vegan cooking, but I usually spare them and just make them baked goods instead, which are not so obviously weird.

It's so inspiring to know true romance really does exist in modern Brooklyn.

I wonder what they would think of me if they knew about my secret life.

To a degree, they probably have one, too.

PS I bought this print in a furniture store on Broadway. Bushwick is full of surprises.