My Brain

My Brain

My car just burned up.  The stupid car.  I turn on the heater, the car stalls and stops.  I walk to school, get a ride back and the entire car is engulfed in flames.   The fire department asks me what happened.  I turned on the heater!  Ha Ha.  The car is on fire!  The dashboard is melting.  The windshield is bashed in.  The Fire Dept. did that.  Probably thought someone could have been inside.   I could not help but imagine this was a staged scene for a gang warfare movie.  It wasn’t.  It’s just my luck.  It’s no big deal though.  Inconvenient, but no big deal.    

My school days are just about to reach an end.  I have an education in filmmaking.  A lot of good that will do.  I have decided that I don’t want to enter the film job market as a laborer.  No, I want to earn my fortune and produce a film.  How long would it take to earn my fortune?  What would I do to earn this mythical fortune?  How could I pay for groceries for this week? These and other questions zip through my brain as I stand there watching my car scorch the roadside grass.

My brain.  I have to rely upon this machine to guide me in the right direction, or several directions at once.  I need to devote time to earning the money and still keep the dream alive of investing the money into a project that I love.  What’s the use of earning it and living a life devoid of  art? My brain drives me to earn so I can spend it on the art.  But the art requires the earning, or more specifically, the freedom and opportunity to spend the money on my passion.

Waste, waste, waste.  So much time, money and opportunity is wasted while the earning is taking place.  But isn’t the art also a waste?  Doesn’t the idea of art mean that waste is relative?  Art is wasted on the vast majority of people.  Ignoring art is common.  Blurring the distinction between art and commerce is even more common.

I have a small umbrella that keeps me dry, but I keep leaving it somewhere.  The umbrella is my protection against the storm but it is not sufficiently large.  If I were alone and in a new place, would I be dedicated to the writing or would I let the past distractions follow me like some malevolent genie?  

What can give the hope that I can succeed and not return to my workplace with the stark realization that I am supremely untalented? It is tempting to let little pieces show through the drapes rather than reveal the entire nude statue.

Hope springs eternal!  Other self absorbed would-be writers are similarly stuck in the quicksand.  Think of all the angst and the remorse.  These are the people that populate the movie theaters and the bookstores.  The term “frustrated “ suggests that an attempt was made in the midst of obstacles.  Were they attempts or rehearsals for an attempt?

This will work because it is marketable.  That won’t work, but it’s of high quality.   Keep seeking the compromise.  It’s there somewhere, but hurry before the demographics change.  Rush into something you really feel passionate about and let the passion carry you.  Is the storm too much?  Does the passion at least provide a canopy under which you can duck for a time to gather yourself?