Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Dangerous Roads

When I was young, around seven or eight, I was in church and a man prophesied over me saying that I would work with children (youth), shepherding them away from the perils of sin. I think there was some mention of music. But it might have just been something to do with art in general. I don't recall exactly. Through my childhood and teenage years my parents had always encouraged my artistic spirit, regardless of what I did; music, art and, later, writing. They told me I had talent and I needed to 'hone my skills'. (I'm not sure if I ever heard my parents utter the words 'Hone Your Skills' but anyway, you get the point.)

I have had, for as long as I could remember, a drive, fueled by guilt to perform; to either become some great artist in life or a prodigy in the army of Christ. I do feel responsible for feeding this long after escaping the moma bird nest. After all, these things I have been pursuing interest me. I love art and music and writing. Then again, I also love porn and whiskey.

Recently, over the past few years I have been more concerned about death. You have to take this into context: depression has caused me to become extremely unhealthy. I have issues a thirty five year old man should not have; issues I should have been free of until at least my fifties. Rode hard and put away wet, as the saying goes. I will spare you the details.

Yet, I have accomplished very little if nothing at all to show for it. I have no real job. I have no home. I have no children. I have a dog doomed to pass on in the next 3-4 years (I love her so!). I have a persistent smoker's cough. A bad back, a bum knee. Smoking induced sleep apnea. I have never written a book, though I've written enough nonsense to fill a shelf of 5 subject notebooks. I have never successfully been in a band or showcased any of the music I have written in the eye of the critical public. And I officially gave up art when I was in high school.

Over these past few years I have craved immortality. I am under the belief that if I leave something, a part of me, behind; books, a series of artwork, a kick ass rock album, I would somehow gain that immortality. For instance, J.R.R. Tolkien has numerous fans still today. People are creating Tolkien art, making Middle Earth games, and reading and fantasizing about Hobbits and Ents and the perils in Mordor 37 years later. The old, tweedy brit died in '73 two years before I was born! And yet he lives on in The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings. In order for me to do that I have to create 'great' work. I can't even muster average work. SHIT! I can't even muster 'completed' work.

It's been tearing me apart. This may seem silly to you. Or maybe not. Maybe you know exactly what I am talking about. Either way, it is a real part of my life. I have been trying to take it easy. Trying to embrace and enjoy the little things in life as they come. It isn't a walk in the park. I'm obsessed and yet too depressed to stand up and take a chance on this immortalizing work of greatness.

And when I think that my despair has swelled enough to propel me into action...! some catastrophe erupts and I am fed the poison of contentment with the phrase 'I should be thankful for what I have'.

To hell with what I have! I would suffer a lifetime of poverty and hunger for a sense of accomplishment and a feeling of pride. Maybe I just need a nap.

-Nosmo (Thanks for stopping by!)


  1. I know how you feel. I have had the same urge to find my calling so to speak and I'm not really sure I have one after all. I guess we can't all be genius and known. You may have it worse if you have no children because at least I can hope that one of them or their children or someone down the ages will do something special and so then, it will matter that I existed even if I am forgotten. And I think of the millions and millions of people who have lived and died and the world is oblivious. There are some kings and nobles and a few artists and writers and inventors who might be known 100 years after they've lived but really - so very very few considering. I would still love to leave a mark but I think I can accept that it's likely I won't.

  2. I suppose, in retrospect, that having moved one or two people in a positive way through my art should be enough. Or better yet, I should find peace and fulfillment in what I do regardless of what others think about it.

    Then again, if I were capable of that I would probably not be a very good artist, if at all. Art, good art, comes from angst of the soul. Good art comes from depression, oppression or dissatisfaction. Happy artists make crappy art. Did I just coin that phrase? Perhaps. LOL. Anyhow, thank you for your comments, Jeannie. You always know how to relate.