la la land

I have adopted the persona of struggling artist. I think I’ve rescued it. Like how kind souls rescue dogs and cats from a shelter. I’ve shown up to point – “That one.” – and brought it home. Like Van Gogh, giving all of himself to this calling and you sell two paintings in 30 years. I guess cutting off your ear is one response. Good as any. Maybe a metaphor for, “I don’t want to hear it.” Hearing happening all through the body, not just with a solo ear. Which, twistedly, explains the “struggling artist” cloak I find myself throwing over my left shoulder these days.

Someone said to me, the other day, about something, “It is for your benefit.” What, when a painting becomes other than an artist vision, moans and groans part of the deal? When I’m tagging along with Vincent to the poor house? The nut house? When the rent and the car insurance are having a good laugh in the corner? When the colors of the sun setting over the Pacific stun me? When I pass over the lusciousness of a rain-soaked canyon? When I get to think about and chase after birthday presents – all through my body?

Of course, I’d much rather be a struggling artist than a gazillionaire oil magnet. You already know that. And a cat named Lingi said, “The Great Way is not difficult when you do not pick and choose.” Like being rescued. Like Emma Stone singing, “That’s why they need us.”