“How will I ever deal with this narcissisism, this preoccupation with death, religion and sex, these hemmorhoids, these fixations, this incessant masturbation, depression, despair, hopelessness, and shame?”
Well, if you were a real man, which you’re not, you’d carry it with a little class and style, maybe not talk about it so much, but I understand, for you and I are one, just a couple of struggling artists trying to make it in this crazy world. The key to balance, young Padwan, is imbalance, if you’re too balanced, too even, then you’re just flat, and that’s fine for a lawyer, but not you, nonono that won’t do at all. That’s why even your Mom winks at you every once in a while and gives you tacit permission to raise hell and declare war on your brain. It makes sense when you think about it. It makes even more sense when you don’t think about it. It makes sense not to think about it at all. That’s my advice to you. Leave all the heavy thinking to me.
Come on Grazzhoppa, lets get stupid, lets go down that road where Burroughs, Jimi, and all those dope sick Jazz cats found their inspiration. We’re not going to simply get fucked up, we’re going to sodomize our cerebellums, tit-fuck our brains to within an inch of sanity. How does that sound? Yes, it’s amazing how creative you can be when you’re doing this. The problem is you’ll never remember what it was that made so much sense the night before this Godforsaken morning after. And then when you want to create again you can’t because your hung over and you don’t want to do any creating. What you’ll want to do is remain curled up in bed, fetal positioned for victory, waiting for the beer shit to fall out of your sphincter. So instead of forging along that Golden Path what you do is spend all of Sunday in bed, nursing that hangover, and that post-hangover with Aleve, Preparation-H Wet Wipes, and Skinemax On Demand. You drag yourself to your soul crushing job Monday morning and forget about your creative process until Thursday, when maybe your brain will finally be able to produce a clear thought again. Probably not an idea though, who knows where the hell those come from. All you can do is wait for one with pure heart and spirit, axe in hand, ready to dictate whatever the god of inspiration whispers into your black heart. It’s an exhausting process, I know, but what other options does the artist really have?
Okay, maybe that was a little complex, I don’t really understand it myself. Here’s a humble suggestion, take it a little bit at a time. Don’t try and do too much. Have confidence in your abilities (unless you lack talent, and that’s a whole other, not-completely-insurmountable problem that I’ll address shortly). The muse, like all women, hates desperation and can smell it a mile away. So be easy (as the kids say), let it flow, let her come to you. You’re not gonna find your next big idea in a bag of weed. God help you if you ever do chance upon something good under the influence. You’ll probably spend the rest of your life getting fucked up, until finally, at the bottom of your proverbial bottle, the last of your cosmic stash, you find yourself desperately giving blowjobs in the Port Authority bathroom for a pittance, reflecting on the good old days when you didn’t have any good ideas or any cocks in your mouth.
God speed.
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