I must remain frantic during these times, during these down times, these days and weeks and months that flirt with the glowing green sign hanging above the door which leads to new beginnings; I can’t quite make out the word and the answer hides like a song you cannot place, a melody so familiar yet infinitely far away. The inability to name the unreachable tune rips away at the protective layer of skin outside my brain like cockroaches on a dumpster sandwich.
I must remain frantic during these times, during these times when my age restricts success. As a writer I must remember the time required to pass before recognition remembers my name as we shake hands. I cannot watch fellow artists and friends attain early triumph and feel left behind. My name will be heard and my words will be shared and it’s not all going to happen one lucky morning. I’m not trying to write a hit single or cause the world to gasp in awe because those singles are forgotten and those gasps become new gasps which become exhales. I want a slew of guttural twists that span a lifetime and refuse to show mercy. Readers who love the written word search library shelves with a nervous pulse, “Oh come on, come on, I know you’ve got a whole mess of Weber. I know you bastards do. I saw five books by Fante and Miller had at least half a dozen. Shit, I saw two copies of ‘Tropic of Cancer’ in perfect library condition. Beaten vintage.”
I must remain anxious but cling to the waist of patience with clammy palms. I may always wish it was easier, but why should that feeling pose as unnatural? If given the ability to construct an individual utopia why involve struggle? Why involve hurdles and violence and failure and disappointment? Therefore, why should any of us reject the idea of possible perfection? In any realm? Life is abstract and strange and its purpose will be debated until the idea of purpose no longer holds meaning to any living entity. I believe in the idea of demanding it all. Why keep our ceiling within reasonable reach?