Life is NOT Like a Goddamn Box of Chocolates, It’s Like an Onion

So we talked about it and we both apologized and I talked to Punksin and explained what happened and apologized for it getting so out of hand as to frighten her and now…it’s done.

It’s weird, though…I still feel tense. And I’m not sure why exactly. All I know is that I don’t like it. And I don’t feel like drinking it off or medicating it off, I just wish it would go away.

But I guess I still have some things to sort through and that’s why I feel odd, because the argument is over but the internal shit is not. I can’t walk around like this. Although…it could be very good for my writing. I keep telling you folks, most artists are internally tortured people who somehow manage to channel that insane depression/madness/pain/psychosis into brilliant works of art. This is the only thing that gives me hope – that somehow I will one day channel all of that shit into something…well, I won’t say GENIUS, but something that is presentable.

Because that’s really what we do. We take the bullshit and dress it up nicely and put cologne on it and send it out into the world to act and play nice.

Okay, apropos of nothing, if this fucker across the street does not TURN OFF THIS FUCKING CAR ALARM…

Okay. I guess he heard me. Because seriously, I was about to add my own personal meaning to Resident Evil.

English: onion

What the fuck do I do with this?

As I was SAYING…we take the bullshit that is inside us and make it…pretty. Or if it’s not pretty, at least something relatable. You turn it into something people can relate to. Because the honest truth is that, in its purest more honest form, your personal bullshit is not something other people know how to deal with. It’s like onions. Give someone an onion just pulled from the ground and they won’t know what the fuck to do with it. First thing they’re thinking is, onions make me cry. So what do WE, the owner, have to do with the onion? Slice it and saute it in olive oil until its just past that translucent golden part, and getting crisp on some edges. Then drizzle it expertly over a nicely seared steak and now, now, this onion has become a wonderful thing, a perfect complement. It’s the same fucking onion, mind you, but now it can be enjoyed, waxed poetically over, understood in this context.

And thus are mad people: chefs with words. Or art. Or music. Taking the madness and making it into something you can understand and enjoy. And the sad thing is that for us, the torture doesn’t end there. Just because you have your fucking steak doesn’t mean our shit is over. Guess what? That onion on your plate is nothing. We have a whole CROP of onions out back waiting to be peeled. And some of them never get peeled because there’s just way too many of them, so they eventually decay and rot.

So…all of that is to say that I need to take this onion that’s just sitting in my gut right now, being completely indecipherable even to ME, and figure out what the hell to do with it. I know where it needs to go, I’m just not sure what to do with it when I put it there.

Speaking of mad people, today I picked up from the library 2 biographies that I am just eagerly anticipating reading. The first is on Tolstoy, and I love Russian writers so I am practically rubbing my hands with glee on this one. The second, a much larger tome that does promise to be fun, is about Van Gogh. I am MOST excited to learn about his life, although I do expect that it will send me into throes of depression from time to time. I mean, the poor man sold only one painting in his ENTIRE LIFE. ONE FUCKING PAINTING. ONE. Can you even BEGIN to understand how DEMORALIZING that must have been?

And yet! He continued to paint. Because he HAD to, he had to get the madness out of him and this was the only way. ONE fucking painting. And now you can’t get your hands on an authentic Van Gogh unless you are rich, know people in the black market, or both. Where does this money GO now? I don’t recall that he had children, only a brother who was the one person keeping dear Vincent from being completely homeless. It seems shameful that the man made no money while he was alive and now his work is worth millions.

And then again, the irony is, perhaps, that had he MADE the millions himself, or achieved the level of fame he currently has – or even a modicum of it – perhaps he wouldn’t have been as tortured? Perhaps his output would have been less brilliant?

One could argue that, I suppose, but we’ve only to look at Hollywood to realize that fame and money does not do away with insecurity, craziness, or delusion. Perhaps he would have been just as tortured about something else, something completely internal. Still, one has to think that being so completely awful at what one does had to have SOME effect. Of course we know NOW he wasn’t awful but no one seemed to think so back then.

So yes, I am looking forward to reading more about Vincent.

Which reminds me, that the Tech Guru and I had also started one of those fantabulous courses on Impressionism from The Great Courses, and we’ve yet to finish it and I really really do want to because we both found it so fascinating, he from an artistic bent, me from a more historical interest, but still we were both eager to learn more about Cassatt and Monet and Pissarro and Morisot etc in context, to learn about them not just as individual artists but about the ways in which they related to each other, informed each other’s work and were affected by the world around them. Lovely stuff. Lovely lovely stuff.

So…that’s all I’ve got for this evening, folks. As with most things, I am turning this oddness inside to my advantage: learning from it, and using it. Onward and upward. Always.

 

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