Confessions of a Fuck Up Artist
Mar. 17th, 2015 01:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonThe Lawn Work Months have come early this year, five days shy of Spring official and the backyard's got weeds hitting knee high already. It's 84 degrees after work and the day has plenty more light to offer. The backyard lawn is the size of a modest playground, wide and empty. The first mow of the year is always the toughest. The mower's been hibernating in the basement for the last few months and will need some arduous if not patient coaxing before waking. Conversely the muscles, even as half-assed gym flexed as mine are, have to learn to remember the unique strain the lawn demands of them.
I remember last year when I took on a similar task. It cost me a good thirty minutes of yanking and screaming before I got the Toro roaring. In fact I hadn't yanked and screamed that hard since my last six month cruise in the Navy. *snare & high-hat roll* Anyway, once I had the beast rumbling, I'd start to get three, four yards in before she'd sputter to a stop. I kept having to prop her up, pull wads of pureed green by the fistful from her blades before having to fire her back up again with a rip of the cord.
Three hours later of sweat and shouted curses I zombie staggered back into the house. Feet throbbing, brain frazzled and reeking of gasoline I sat at this computer to update the Shit List files, moving Mother Nature up a few notches.
Standing on the deck of the backyard earlier I did not look forward to repeating the experience.
Still, if not today, when? If not me, who?
So I get to it.
First thing I did when I pulled her out from beneath the basement was clean the blades. Then I adjusted the wheels to compensate for the initial height of the weeds and patches of feral grass. I checked her oil and fed the beast some oil along with capping her off gas wise. Between attempts on firing up, I let her rest so as not flood the engine. Doing this had her up and running in under five minutes. Along with that I have a phone that plays music now and I blast Death In Vegas and the Gorillaz to keep my brain from chewing on fresh grudges. It also doesn't hurt that I borrowed the bosses weed- eater this time and was able to trim down some trouble spots beforehand. This allowed me to knock out the lawn twice - once horizontal, once vertical - in an hour, ten minutes.
Finished I survey my work from the elevated back deck, leaning against the railing, cigarette smoke keeping the bees away and for a minute I'm back on the fantail of my ship. We're docked in a land surrounded by grass green waters, smooth and impenetrable. The sun's still bright and there's time enough for a shit, shower, and a shave before hitting shore leave as hard as a drunk hits a bottle.
"You should write that down." My friend's astral-hologram beams out from the area between memory and imagination where the real magick happens. He's standing behind me. I don't need to turn around and see him. I can feel the Midwestern wide smile and the gun-fighter gray eyes on my back as sure as I can feel the sunlight on my face.
"What would you know?" I laugh. "You were too smart for the Navy. Remember?"
"I do indeed, brother... just not quite as uniquely as you seem to."
"You'd be surprised how often I get that."
"Hey, I'm just what you think I'd say." His Midwestern smile broadens... I can just feel it as sure as he's lighting a cigarette up even though he's practically quit, "Can't shoot the messenger without putting one in your own head."
"Karma hostage." I grunt to myself and then to him ask. "So what do I need to tell myself this time that I'm not hearing otherwise?"
"You're pissed off."
"Hadn't noticed." I smirk.
"Yeah, well it's nice you're not slitting your wrists online about it or bitching like a..."
"... a bitch?"
"Hey you're the writer, but yeah, a 'bitch'. So congratulations on that but something's eating at you and you need to say something to someone before you explode in someone's face. Which knowing you will be your own."
"What do you want me to say? I'm pissed at the situation not the circumstances." I shrug, partially distracted. Facing westward, the sun hangs lower and the light through the trees slices down to the earth in long shafts of orange and gold. Down below shadows have grown along the lines mowed into a slightly wavy chessboard where every square is a shifting tone of green.
For a moment I almost forget I'm not alone and continue. "And being pissed at the circumstances don't do anything but piss off other people. Only thing for it is to ride it out. Sweat out the mood poison. Spit out the bad blood. Walk it off or man up or whatever it is I'm supposed to do in lieu of meds before I can offer a modicum of pleasant company. Until then I just, I dunno I guess I just don't want to be around anyone. I don't want to talk to them. I don't want to hear anyone tell me what to do or what not to do. Just for once I want to be left alone on my terms, not theirs."
"In that case, Mister I-Want-To-Be-Left-Alone... maybe you can tell me why I'm here then?" My friend chuckles and I turn around as if just slapped but of course he's not there.
Hnh. That Batman shit never gets old as far as my psyche's concerned.
I gaze back down at the lawn.
This time I see what I see when I step away from the page. The lines now patterns carved from the unappeasable chaos of life. In their shadows what all of us who are artists do - to carve a little truth and beauty out of the wild. I dunno. Maybe. Maybe not. But they're nice to look at it in the right light and the process does untangle the nerves better than jerking off or staying stoned 24-7. So I got that going for me.
Now if only I could learn to write as well as I mow lawns.
Meantime dinner's been long ready inside. Meantime I still got to run up to the store to get more smokes. Meantime this cigarette's gone long out and the insects are buzzing around my face in droves now.
But I don't move away from the railing or my view of the lawn. Not yet. Instead I pull up something I saw the night before on my smartphone before bed. Dostoyevsky. A letter to his brother that he wrote when he got a last second reprieve from the wrong end of a firing squad. I read it out loud to no one at all.
"I did not whimper, complain and lose courage. Life, life is everywhere, life is inside us… There will be people beside me, and to be a man among people is to remain a man forever… that is life, that is the task of life…"
Nothing left to be said, I make my way back inside and back to all that life goes on bullshit.
I remember last year when I took on a similar task. It cost me a good thirty minutes of yanking and screaming before I got the Toro roaring. In fact I hadn't yanked and screamed that hard since my last six month cruise in the Navy. *snare & high-hat roll* Anyway, once I had the beast rumbling, I'd start to get three, four yards in before she'd sputter to a stop. I kept having to prop her up, pull wads of pureed green by the fistful from her blades before having to fire her back up again with a rip of the cord.
Three hours later of sweat and shouted curses I zombie staggered back into the house. Feet throbbing, brain frazzled and reeking of gasoline I sat at this computer to update the Shit List files, moving Mother Nature up a few notches.
Standing on the deck of the backyard earlier I did not look forward to repeating the experience.
Still, if not today, when? If not me, who?
So I get to it.
First thing I did when I pulled her out from beneath the basement was clean the blades. Then I adjusted the wheels to compensate for the initial height of the weeds and patches of feral grass. I checked her oil and fed the beast some oil along with capping her off gas wise. Between attempts on firing up, I let her rest so as not flood the engine. Doing this had her up and running in under five minutes. Along with that I have a phone that plays music now and I blast Death In Vegas and the Gorillaz to keep my brain from chewing on fresh grudges. It also doesn't hurt that I borrowed the bosses weed- eater this time and was able to trim down some trouble spots beforehand. This allowed me to knock out the lawn twice - once horizontal, once vertical - in an hour, ten minutes.
Finished I survey my work from the elevated back deck, leaning against the railing, cigarette smoke keeping the bees away and for a minute I'm back on the fantail of my ship. We're docked in a land surrounded by grass green waters, smooth and impenetrable. The sun's still bright and there's time enough for a shit, shower, and a shave before hitting shore leave as hard as a drunk hits a bottle.
"You should write that down." My friend's astral-hologram beams out from the area between memory and imagination where the real magick happens. He's standing behind me. I don't need to turn around and see him. I can feel the Midwestern wide smile and the gun-fighter gray eyes on my back as sure as I can feel the sunlight on my face.
"What would you know?" I laugh. "You were too smart for the Navy. Remember?"
"I do indeed, brother... just not quite as uniquely as you seem to."
"You'd be surprised how often I get that."
"Hey, I'm just what you think I'd say." His Midwestern smile broadens... I can just feel it as sure as he's lighting a cigarette up even though he's practically quit, "Can't shoot the messenger without putting one in your own head."
"Karma hostage." I grunt to myself and then to him ask. "So what do I need to tell myself this time that I'm not hearing otherwise?"
"You're pissed off."
"Hadn't noticed." I smirk.
"Yeah, well it's nice you're not slitting your wrists online about it or bitching like a..."
"... a bitch?"
"Hey you're the writer, but yeah, a 'bitch'. So congratulations on that but something's eating at you and you need to say something to someone before you explode in someone's face. Which knowing you will be your own."
"What do you want me to say? I'm pissed at the situation not the circumstances." I shrug, partially distracted. Facing westward, the sun hangs lower and the light through the trees slices down to the earth in long shafts of orange and gold. Down below shadows have grown along the lines mowed into a slightly wavy chessboard where every square is a shifting tone of green.
For a moment I almost forget I'm not alone and continue. "And being pissed at the circumstances don't do anything but piss off other people. Only thing for it is to ride it out. Sweat out the mood poison. Spit out the bad blood. Walk it off or man up or whatever it is I'm supposed to do in lieu of meds before I can offer a modicum of pleasant company. Until then I just, I dunno I guess I just don't want to be around anyone. I don't want to talk to them. I don't want to hear anyone tell me what to do or what not to do. Just for once I want to be left alone on my terms, not theirs."
"In that case, Mister I-Want-To-Be-Left-Alone... maybe you can tell me why I'm here then?" My friend chuckles and I turn around as if just slapped but of course he's not there.
Hnh. That Batman shit never gets old as far as my psyche's concerned.
I gaze back down at the lawn.
This time I see what I see when I step away from the page. The lines now patterns carved from the unappeasable chaos of life. In their shadows what all of us who are artists do - to carve a little truth and beauty out of the wild. I dunno. Maybe. Maybe not. But they're nice to look at it in the right light and the process does untangle the nerves better than jerking off or staying stoned 24-7. So I got that going for me.
Now if only I could learn to write as well as I mow lawns.
Meantime dinner's been long ready inside. Meantime I still got to run up to the store to get more smokes. Meantime this cigarette's gone long out and the insects are buzzing around my face in droves now.
But I don't move away from the railing or my view of the lawn. Not yet. Instead I pull up something I saw the night before on my smartphone before bed. Dostoyevsky. A letter to his brother that he wrote when he got a last second reprieve from the wrong end of a firing squad. I read it out loud to no one at all.
"I did not whimper, complain and lose courage. Life, life is everywhere, life is inside us… There will be people beside me, and to be a man among people is to remain a man forever… that is life, that is the task of life…"
Nothing left to be said, I make my way back inside and back to all that life goes on bullshit.