Rock Star Hour

This is 42. I am at home, sick, after working myself like a dog for several months. I didn't know I was doing it exactly. I was "mission focused", I said. Have lots of financial and career goals. Also, though I'm heartbroken. I have been running away from the negative feelings putting myself to work. Life's a mixed bag, I've learned. You can focus on the good and you can let the bad ruminate and destroy you. So here I am. Where could I possibly begin so long after stopping? A divorce, a near death experience, a career change, many out of state moves later. I'm happy with my life. I'm much more better at functioning anymore. I think I'm better at showing up for people in general. I like to think I am a better person and friend. I like to think I'm strong but I still break like a little girl, like the song, you know? I miss writing and I've become a very private person. There's no privacy anymore and this feels more annonymous that most places you can write anymore, while still being public. Also, I hate my art a lot of the time. I talked to Daniel Clowes about that once, years ago. I met him in a Downtown Berkeley bookstore. He said he hates his art "all the time," but that, "you learn to forgive yourself." I feel like art is really self-involved. Like it is a truly selfish act sometimes. I know a lot of artists, a lot of musicians. I will say this is more in the performance art space, but also in the writing space, that people seem really self-important and/or starved for attention. Like everyone's out in the world screaming "look at me! look at me!" you know? "Look what I can do!" Like we are all 8-years old. Or at least, the 8 year olds inside never leave us. I saw a short film on Disney Plus recently that was sort of about that. Nailed it. Surprisingly so. Maybe I'll revisit this later. It's a start of something maybe. I miss writing. Does that mean I miss being selfish? I miss being in touch with my feelings. I forgot how cathartic this could always be for me.