He told me that he had a feeling that I would, someday, get somewhere with this writing that I do every day. But, most importantly, to not lose what I "gave" everyone there a minute ago.
He then told me about his own life and how, at 70, his art still made him feel the same way it did when he was 9. the "hard-on" for life and the ability to create.
I long for that happiness. And, with luck, that age.
J could have been bigger than Andy Warhol. He came close several times, but focused less on fame and more on creating art. He wanted to leave a valuable footprint in his own eyes, not in anyone else's.
"Fuck those people," he said. "If they start interfering with the kind of stuff you just read to us, you leave 'em in the dust. I can't believe you're only 29. I don't think I was painting anything that I thought was good until I was in my 40's."
I had had my birthday a week prior and everyone in the group seemed kind of awestruck. I guess they thought I was a lot older (I do look pretty rough).
I still want to quit my job and write full-time until the money runs out. Just like I said in the poem I read to them last night. I'm just waiting for a sign at this point. One that says "fuck it. Go for it. You need to."
Thank you, J.
-- (The poem is below) --
When a restless soul ignites a lust for life which then dies in the arms of bad poetry
Every so often
and for lack of a better phrase.
My soul lets loose.
And I feel a flare of spontaneity
rise.
I don't mean "soul" in a mythological sense
Rising to heaven
or sinking to hell.
I mean a true soul.
When the chemicals I share with all of you
and the memories
and conversations
open the flood gates.
Right before poetry--
no matter how bad--
is born
and slithers proud
and well sculpted in the afterbirth.
That is when
I want to dance.
Outside and in.
I want to star in the one-man-show
of my life.
See all the women I worship as works of art topless
and jumping rope.
Gain the desire to shave myself bare
and dress in drag.
To break down all norms.
To drink wine first thing in the morning
and mow my lawn,
and chop firewood
in Vans sneakers
and black gym shorts.
To not care what people think
about me for once.
To not care that my hair is falling out,
or if I smell bad because I don't wear deodorant.
I should quit my job
and write every day until the money runs out.
I want to take that risk when I feel like this.
I wish I felt this sexy
this handsome
this creative
this loving
this passionate
this satisfied
this unsatisfied
this devilish.
This immortal.
This...happy.
All the time.
Do you get that feeling?
Like taking the bite out of a large, heavy Gala apple.
A really fucking loud bite
and catching some of your own lip.
and, with a wince,
Letting the juice run down your face
and the mist splash against your nostrils.
To attack something so simple
with all the senses.
To feel with everything with every part of your being.
That's poetry
sitting on the face of life.
and reaching down.
and grabbing him by the balls.
She has no interest in getting the shaft.
And, right now,
neither do I.
