WRITING
Hangin’ On By A Thread
The all too human act of trying to create art while watching the world go up in flames
That’s how it is some days around here. Just hanging on by a very thin strand of next to nothing, praying it’s enough, all the while questioning your faith in prayer. It ain’t always easy, this hanging on. In fact, it rarely is. I’ll think I’m turning a corner, better able to suppress the panicky feelings, the rage, and the darkness, imagining perhaps that I see a glimmer of hope just ahead, when it all goes dark again, I worry what the point is, and whether any of it is truly worth the hype.
I suspect not, but still hope so. This is my dilemma.
Charles Bukowski wrote, “How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?”
I do not have a good answer for that, Chuck. Sounds pretty dark, in fact. But it’s also bigger than that for me. I’m generally not as worked up about the evils of capitalism and the plight of the proletariat as some might assume I am, or should be. From time to time, I think about…
