When I’m overworked, tuckered, and milked dry like one of those stray dogs you see on the beaches of Goa; those bitches with their tits dragging in the sand; those bitches that yelp and snarl and bite when another dog comes along and forces his doggy wiener inside her; that bitch; I sometimes think about quitting art. Or at least, I think about giving myself permission to make things without documenting the process or putting it out into the world. Or making things from a cozy hammock in say, Fuerteventura. And when I do think about this as an option my brain opens up. Ah. It says. I can breathe. Thanks!
But now what? My brain asks minutes later. Who would you be to the world? A pirate? A hamster evangelist? A misinterpreter? A bunion? A bully? A panhandler? A swarthy sap? A pickaxe? A turnip farmer? A daydreamer? A nightswallower? A chump? A barnacle? A corporate wanderer? A willow tree? A doormat? A diamond reader? You're here to make things. Not things that can be held, bought or sold necessarily, but things that you care about. You know it. Don’t tell yourself anything else. No matter how little time you have. No matter how difficult it may be to work on your own stuff after working your ass off all day. It’s part of you. It is you. Follow your guts. They know what they are talking about. Can you please pass me the pepper?
I then thank my brain for talking sense into me, take a quick stroll, sip a cup of tea and carry on.
