Back to Smack

No I am not doing heroin.  But that would probably be nice right now.  I have never tried it, but i’m sure even it’s withdrawl beats this sick mess I’m in.  I have a bang up job of a body and a beat up engine of a brain. And apparently car metaphors have now become my literary tool.

Not sure if this is called a coincidence or if it is just the fact that sociology DOES make you think about your own position in life, but, the material i have been reading lately is like the story of my development.  Of course I was brought up in a micro-version of capitalist development.  My parents both extremely poor at the onset of my conception, but their extremely diligent work ethic along with astounding intelligence allowed them both to succeed and eventually provide us with a very comfortable life.  My father was an incredibly talented painter as a young man.  I have seen these paintings, and have shed tears upon seeing their beauty.  He didn’t want pursue this however, which is fine.  He wanted to work with money, but still to this day I wonder if he really wanted to be a painter. If you work your ass off according to the rules, you get by the world.  It is a common theme I have pondered throughout my adult life.  Would I have been happier in a small society, a tribal setting?  Of course this is ludicrous to ponder on some levels because if I was in a tribe, chances are I wouldn’t crave a western upbringing if it didn’t really hold much meaning to me.  I suppose what I am trying to say is that, by the time I am on my third book for the class I am taking, we will be studying Emile Durkheim’s Suicide a direct result of capitalism on many people.  I have gone through the early analytical works about Capitalism and am soon to reach the study where we see the people of capitalist nations off themselves because of how insane the society has made them.

I must admit that I am among this crowd of unhappy capitalists.  I am unhappy in this society.  I am unhappy that because the failings of my mental health have resulted in complete inability to succeed the way I wanted to.  That I must walk the walk in order to even live comfortably, ie. If I studied banking (I have the smarts for it), I could have a nice 2 bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side.  That I must forego my art because I couldn’t navigate my way into the elite art world where you actually get paid for it (A very small exclusive world).  Instead I mosey along, unaccomplished, heartbroken, and feeling wasteful of my talents.  Instead of living my dream, I live in pergatory.  My father’s talent for painting (he also has a talent for languages) makes me wish that he’d pursued a more artistic way of life.  But then I remember, that he didn’t have the same anguish attached to his art, he didn’t feel the need for his art to touch people, or to mean more than just a picture in a sketch book, not a way to live.  For him art was just a thing he did, but it certainly could never give him money for his childrens’ college education. 

Here a poem:

I am a Yankee
Born bold and ready to be

More than something underneath a stone -
But only enough to carry some genetic features

Locked away among the dust of the family paintings
I look through the window of the attic at the maples

Through foggy scratched glass with dead gnats and webs in corners.
The view is all I get.

Filed under Uncategorized |