I need to make some money, now, fast, yesterday. Rent, back rent, money. What do I intend to do about that she asks?
Worry? What me worry? Worrying is futile. Stress? Going to have to give my step-ulcer a real name by now. I know, send out sales pitches, cold pitches, like I did at the gallery, "check out my new paintings, priced to move, investment quality."
Sing for my supper, you gotta sing, it will relieve stress, sing, "Will you stay in a lover's story, if you stay you won't be sorry, 'cause we believe in you!" Bowie, I sing this song to my paintings, to myself, my neighbors here, hear. Only song that I remember all of the lyrics to.
I look at the jobs posted online, the newspaper, craigslist, where do my skills fit? Am I employable? Been so long without a real job that my self confidence is kaput.
This is my seventh day without a painting. I have the supplies, the tools that I need, this unrelenting inspiration, I see, clearly, brightly, I see till it hurts. After nine months of painting daily maybe my brain just need time to fart off. Maybe. Take time to relax, get out, have company all day long, catch up with reality, my version of reality. Who am I now, what have I done here and who have I become since moving to Santa Fe nearly three years ago?
When I first moved into El Zaguan I experienced a passionate loneliness. I had never lived alone, never had just my name on the lease, everyone thought that it would be good for me, some kind of rehabilitation, going to make a man of you somehow. I had always had family, friends, roommates, lovers before that time. Winter was dark, my discontent blaring. They will tell you that the first year here is the most difficult. Then they tell you that you need two years, no then they say you need three. They say that the spirits that live in the mountains don't really care for people. The spirits in the mountains can be real assholes.
I applied for jobs, galleries, came to town with five years experience in New York, a shoe in no doubt, or so we all thought. No one would hire me, no sales record of selling two-ton bronze bears. I had everything that I needed though, paint, sketches, music, that crappy camera, my old computer that crashed, books, words, and ghosts. This was their place, I would have to make it mine.
Time went on, planning became pointless, I was living in the moment. But I could not see my future. Death came along, summed up life, the ghosts became my accomplices. I am certainly not the first one to live here like this and I hope that I am not the last. The landlady gave me a two-week notice yesterday. Should I stay or should I go?