Back in the Saddle

The question is, why bother? Isn’t that the first question of your day? What is your answer? If you aren’t prone to fantasy tales or dopamine receptors, you’ll be stumped. The energy it takes to come up with a good reason to give a shit, if you are also trying to stay true to reality, is daunting. Last night’s Indian restaurant drink with a curator friend who actually read me the cover letter she’d concocted for a museum position was so hungry and verbose that I retreated, again, to my garret to ponder the mystery of meglomania– and in doing so, became re-determined to stop promoting. Granted, there are numerous rewards in grasping. If you aren’t grasping, what are you doing-? What else is there? I am determined to find out. — That letter she’d submitted. The position she’d applied for. The art at stake. A bottom feeder. A synthesizer. The middle man. The cusp of reality and commerce. The gal that wears the leather and beret- and gets a percentage. No talent, no ability per-se- just an societally accepted appendage- a slog in the capitalist machine, taking the pure and packaging it for a shipment to mediocrity. Why have the intellectuals started to eat themselves? Oh yes, they are paid by the Universe-ities. If you follow the money, as the radicals suggest, you will simple stop going to Indian restaurants with artistic friends who profess liberalism. Choking with the bullshit I found myself at a mental health facility questioning my sanity. They wanted to offer me pills that would protect my psyche from the people who were my only known friends. Friends who had succumbed to the bullshit. Friends who meant well and were concerned about my visit to the mental health facility. Friends who picked up the tab at the indian restaurant. All I have to do is keep my mouth shut.

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