The Edge… There is no honest way to explain it
because the only people who really know where it is
are the ones who have gone over.
– Hunter S. Thompson, Doctor of Gonzo
I am laying down on a long leather couch.
Talking to my psychiatrist.
He’s in Tempe or Scottsdale,
someplace that needs a lot of help.
He doesn’t want me to know his exact location.
My shrink doesn’t give me much advice, help, whatever.
But, it’s okay.
He doesn’t charge me.
Worth every penny.
Not going crazy is a lot like throwing a ball up against a wall
and catching it when it comes back.
I can’t always do that.
Sex, drugs, alcohol.
Poker, running, cable television.
Sanity is not turning away
when the ball comes for you.
Used to self-medicate.
But after awhile, like with multiple sex partners
and chocolate marshmallows,
you feel the need for something more.
So, now I write. I write my doctor.
Been thinking of you.
Been thinking of you
because of something Ta-Nehisi Coates said,
“…nothing should really scare a writer more
than the moment when they are no longer scared.
I think it’s then that one might begin
to lapse into self-caricature,
endlessly repeating the same insights
and the same opinions over and over.”
When I decided to become A Primitive Artist,
I decided I wasn’t afraid.
Nobody buys it, nobody reads it, well, f*ck’em all.
I won’t stop.
Catch the ball.
There was a moment
when I realized I was no longer scared.
I was kinda proud of that, I’ll be honest.
But I am worried
about lapsing into self-caricature.
And I do repeat stuff.
I do. I do. I do.
The same insights.
Lot of these opinions I’ve had for six decades.
Nobody’s listening.
Nobody’s listening,
And I am still right.
I’ve been right all along.
Why should I change?
Catch the ball.
|
