Went to the beach today, still have sandy legs. There were jellyfish in the water, the sky was a world of colour, the ocean an impossible blue, the friend I was with impossibly sweet, the moments drawn out an surreal. I will go again tomorrow. There is some soul connection there, at least for me, were I to believe in the soul, which I don’t of course. Some kind of deep truth.
I learned that in our ancient past, this is the primary way in which we spread across the globe. The coast provided an environment that was more consistent and stable for us, we walked from beach to beach to beach over the last hundred thousand years, eating clams and fish, making sandcastles, making love, swimming and killing each other in front of the wild and terrifying oceans. Making Gods of the waves.
So in the weight of our ancestral evolutionary memory, we are beach living, sunburnt. I think that this draws us back, and perhaps always will.
May I never, never ever, live inland.
I forget, I neglect to believe, that my work often works, that it moves people, that they want to buy it. I have booked a show at Little creatures, which is a pub built inside a brewery factory – which sounds awful but is in actuality really very cool. I was showing my folios to the manager (owner?) and he said that it would be an honour to have my work there. I need this, I need these things, their promise of reward, I rely on praise as of course I doubt and doubt everything that I do. I think that everyone does, with everything, sure, I do, but… I need it, in my work, I cannot tell myself that it matters and believe it. I have never been able to, though the conviction is there in my mind it does not bear the weight of another’s, anyone’s, praise. It does not exist in my heart. I have to fool myself every day to keep going. I think that it is like this for any creative person’s, well anyone’s work and life. Tell me that it matters, that I, literally me, the actions of my hands and fingers and words, my thoughts and hopes and love, make a difference, tell me tell me tell me…
I still feel guilty when someone gives me money for a painting. I have always been poor, I tend to think “wow… hey, don’t you need this?”
My poverty is not hardest now, it’s true. But there are some aspects of it that ARE. When I was younger, it seemed like pretty much everyone was poor, all my friends were, that’s for sure, students and musicians, DJ’s, artists like me. It was more difficult when I was younger, often I was too proud to ask my parents for help, and yeah, I literally starved for a while, actually got SCURVY, can you believe it… you can only live on potatoes only for so long. Plus I drank any money I had. What sucks more is that I ain’t 20 any more, and my friends, even the ones who burned a good decade of their lives partying and drinking and taking drugs like me (though I was always pretty chickenshit when it came to the drugs part) have finished their degrees and have jobs. Real jobs, where they get paid enough to buy like houses and cars and things like that. Several of them are thinking seriously about children. I mean… I find it hard to think seriously about buying lunch. From a financial point of view.
Hm, I just blew $15 on petrol. Now I will have to stick to International Roast, the SPAM of coffee, the scrapings from the floor of the crappy coffee types that they make. I do need the petrol I suppose, and coffee makes far less difference to my life than being able to GO PLACES. Still. The worst part is that I am in my thirties and still have to ask my family for money. I hate doing that. Everything else I can live with, but I feel like a complete loser when I have to ask. Like maybe I should give up and go and work in a supermarket which my fine arts degree qualifies me for.
Oh well, what the hell, sang Mcwatt. I am rambling. And bitching. I will stop now. My life is really really good, really. I get to PAINT ALL THE TIME YEAH!