WILLING TO GROW UP
My son took a red crayon to my writing desk, and, when I sat down, I saw the markings and thought this is the best writing yet, better than anything I’ve written at least.
The weeks run long and savage. There are justifications for almost every decision but hardly enough remedies. To what shores do we navigate our boats? Into what uncharted territories do we venture? That mountain range, that island, I want to go there and see all that life has to offer. Instead, there is a cubicle and a computer, a boss and fluorescent lamps, and other small capitulations made in the name of acceptance… of course, once you have children you can no longer reverse course.
Mandi messaged me just now. Alex has a poopy diaper that needs changing, and he isn't one to take such acts of aggression without a fight. She needs my help holding his legs down so she can wipe it all up. I have to use my grown-man strength to get the job done. “I was writing.” I tell her afterwards. “I thought you hadn’t started yet.” she replies. And when I return to my desk, I lose my train of thought and make seventeen typos in an effort to be clever.
You see, when you’re of a certain age, certain things are expected of you, and certain things fall by the wayside. I never understood this until recently, but for all the romanticism placed on the young artist, it is met with an equal measure of disdain once “young” is no longer an adequate descriptor. When? Usually around thirty. Maybe later. Maybe sooner depending on your family situation.
The most analogous experience I had growing up was the last year I dressed up for Halloween. I didn't have a costume, so I cut a mask out of an old shirt, taped a cardboard cutout of Saturn to my chest, and tied a bedsheet around my neck. Even the mothers laughed at me, this 5’ 8” 14 year-old kid lurking behind the 6 and 7 year-olds, waiting for his share of candy. Now that I think about it, someone should have stopped me and broken the news that I was too old to be acting that way. But no one did.
The same goes for art. I understand it’s gauche to continue on, believe me. I’ve alienated almost every close friend and family member I’ve ever had. And yet, I keep going. I’ve been pressured to stop, either through bullshit guilt trips or medieval shunnings, and yet, I keep going. I’m willing to grow up, especially now with wife and son, approaching 40, but never at the expense of the creative act, never at the expense of this costume that fits so nice against my bulging belly, this costume that, while eliciting mockery and derision and hatred and isolation, infects the minds of my enemies with its beauty and sheer audacity to never conform.
