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Waiting for my Squirrel
Because “artist” has a negative connatation. It’s a word that makes parents’ cringe when their child in college uses it to describe themselves. Because for every “successful” “artist” we know, there seems to be way more “artists” living with their parents way longer than they should, because the world just doesn’t “understand” them.
It seems that there is a fine line between artist and loser. The reason for this, is that most of these “artists” are lazy. They’re not creating. They’re sleeping till noon waiting for inspiration. I’ve seen this in comics, musicians, writers, and illustrators. I’m not knocking their talent, but rather their work ethic. Talent is only part of the equation.
Sometimes, it’s not laziness that’s the problem. Life starts getting in the way; spouses, kids, jobs — they start getting in the way of the passion, and it falls by the wayside like an umbrella that was blown to shit. And this is just as tragic. Because now they’re a “failed” artist.
I would like to reclaim the word “artist,” if I only knew how. This way, when a college kid tells his or her parent that their going to be an artist, their parents’ stomach doesn’t go into knots.
The term “starving artist” has become something I really don’t care for, because it’s what I’ve become. “Starving artist” has two connatations:
1. You are poor as shit, which is a reflection of failure.
2. You are poor as shit because you haven’t lost your passion yet, and you’re still chasing it.
I grew up middle class, in an upper-middle class town nicknamed “White Islip” because of it’s total lack of diversity. You’d be more shocked to see a black person in my home town than a unicorn. I thought I was poor growing up. We were not. We owned a boat. It was a small boat, but we still owned a boat. The thing was, most of my friends parents made a lot more money. They had bigger houses, vacationed frequently, had nicer clothes, and cooler things in general (including really big boats and jet skis). My parents are the most fiscally responsible people I’ve ever met in my life. Money was tight. It was always a topic of concern in my house, but we never struggled to put food on the table. We were never poor, which I didn’t realize till I was a little older. We were a blue-collar, working middle class family. We were comfortable.
My parents are still comfortable in their middle-class life. They live within their means, and closely follow their budget. Nothing in my childhood home would “wow” you, but my parents are OCD and they take care of everything as if it were the crown jewel, so their home is a rather pristine and cozy place.
I left that. I left that and now live on the poverty line. I always knew there were people that went to bed hungry. But I never thought that person would be me. Ever. I go to bed hungry more than I go to bed with a satisfied belly.
At work, my co-workers think I’m the picture of health, because for lunch I eat a yogurt and fruit. This is because that lunch cost two or three dollars. I should disclaim here that my calorie intake could be higher, but I do try very hard to eat healthy. I think it’s better to eat less healthy food than pump my body full of McDonald’s.
I love being thin. I guess that’s the one positive takeaway. But I’ve dropped a few pounds and I wouldn’t mind at all gaining them back. I’m not playing a sympathy card here. You should not feel bad for me. This is my choice. I had a good home, but I left. I could have gotten a more affordable place with roommates, but I chose a more expensive studio. I chose this.
Artists have a reputation for being depressed and, often times, abusing substances. They’re miserable, yet pompous. They’re proud of their struggling.
For the record, I hate being a starving artist. I would much rather prefer a writing job for a television show, where I wouldn’t be having peanuts (literally) for dinner. That being said, I do think a certain amount of struggling is good for a human.
When you’re struggling (this isn’t just financial, either, the struggle could be mental or with relationships, etc.), you’re faced with your true self. It’s when things are all going wrong where you get a glimpse of the person you really are, underneath everything you’ve learned to be. That is not an easy thing to face. If you don’t think you’re a selfish asshole, you’ve never struggled. We are not intrinsically good or evil. We are intrinsically selfish. This is not a bad thing. It’s pure instinct. It’s fight or flight. It’s staying alive. Reproduce. Survive. You will do it because you have to, and you will be an asshole. When you’re struggling, you don’t look in the mirror and see what brand you’re wearing, or if you look like so fucking sexy in this outfit, you only see a mammal seeking some sort of a purpose in a life where you know there is absolutely no fucking purpose except to survive and reproduce. That’s what’s so hard about the struggle. You feel like you’re losing something about yourself, when really, you’re just discovering who you truly are, and you’re not that fond of that person.
Wow, that is a depressing message. There is a warm and fuzzy side. When you’re struggling (provided there’s some people, even if you’re not sure why, who believe in you and/or love you) people start to help you, and you become so appreciative of this help. Actually, this help might even make you feel worse, because you’re not sure if you deserve it, or if you’ll ever be able to pay them back. Because you’ve just discovered that you’re kind of a shitty person. And you have to ask yourself, “am I taking advantage of good people’s kindness?” This is a question you won’t want to answer.
I don’t believe in karma. At least not in a supernatural way. I do believe in reciprocity. Everything you do ripples. If you’re a dick to a person, they might be in a bad mood because something shitty happened at their job, so they’re going to be a dick to another person, and that person is having a bad day because they got in a fight with their brother and so on and so on. If you’re nice to someone, maybe they will be nice to someone, and it ripples. Pay it forward. Small acts of kindness. Be a better person, because we need more better people. I think we can all agree that there are too many shitty people.
All comics struggle. And I hear comics complain about other comics all the time. But because comics understand the struggle, I have met some of the most supportive and generous people in comedy, and they are overall fantastic human beings (and hilarious comics). I want to hang out with these comics as much as I want to be just like them.
The New York cliche “if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere,” is both true and untrue (for me, at least). I’m not sure yet if New York is going to make or break me. A friend said to me the other day, “you’re one of those people that you can throw anything at, and you’ll just handle it.” That’s a very gracious compliment that I wish was true. Because I bend and break. My head has less direction than an Ed Wood film.
I miss Hawaii. I miss Hawaii like a lost lover, whom I daydream about spending my life with. Would it be as magical as I imagine or am I romanticizing a fantasy? I follow surfers and Hawaii based photographers on Instagram, and everyday I look at these amazing pictures, and wonder if New York is worth it. I wonder if working 9 to 5, then doing open mics, and going to comedy clubs and writing, getting few hours of sleep every night and then waking up and doing it again the next day, and the next day, and the next day will ever pay off.
A friend of mine who’s a native New Yorker and currently lives in Los Angeles always is able to put things poetically. She said when she moved west, she was feeling uneasy about it. She loved New York, identified with it, and missed New York as soon as she left. Then, one day in LA, she saw a squirrel with an orange in it’s mouth. She laughed and that’s the moment she knew that it was going to be alright.
At work, at my new job, at my new desk, I was typing, and I heard a scratching in the wall. At first thought I was going mad, but then I put my ear against the wall to listen. Sure enough, there was something in there, trying to scratch it’s way out. At first I thought this was pretty awful for us. But after some thought, I realized that this was much worse for the creature, be it a rat, mouse, or squirrel. It was trapped, in a dark place, clawing it’s way out, unsure if it was even going in the right direction.
The creature died in the wall, the odor of it’s decaying carcass, a constant reminder of something that seemed to be a fantastic metaphor for my life; trying to shawshank redemption itself out of imprisonment, and while it’s efforts were for naught, it wouldn’t go down without a fight.
I feared this was a warning sign. I fear that my fate will be not much different than the creatures. Is that my squirrel? Will I become another reason people scoff at the word “artist?”
I’m just starting to get comfortable at my new place in Astoria. I went for a run in Astoria Park by the East River, my eyes on Manhattan in the distance. I found myself feeling at home, happy with the decision I’ve made. While running through the park, I passed a squirrel. It looked at me, feeling me out, seeing if I were a threat. That’s when I thought, I’m still waiting for my squirrel.
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