Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Scamp
I have very little trouble expressing myself, saying what I mean, being articulate, telling my story, sharing my tale of woe, moaning, whining, bitching and complaining. It's a gift.
I changed schools sixteen times before I was eleven. It occurs to me that if you wanted to completely derail a child's education, this is a good insane way to make sure that happens.
Imagine an increasingly fucked up boy being introduced into a new world of mutual incomprehension over and over. And over.
That was the first half of my education, that was the extremely shaky footing and this was followed by a high school, just the one, that had no idea what to do with me. Out of a possible final year score of 100% I achieved 28. My life was already over.
I'm fifty. I own nothing. I am entirely financially reliant on my partner. Every venture ends in disaster/embarassment.
I am currently working on: a sculpture project that is open-ended in that I have no idea how it will make money, a book project that may be published but is unlikely to make money. A podcast project, a video project and I want to start making ultra low-project horror comedy films. I have all these ideas not because I have boundless energy, but because I have to try everything. Surely something has to work.
Ideas aren't the problem, I've got hundreds of those.
When you don't have money, it's impossible to make money. I only continue because at my age now there is no chance of any kind of employment.
My life isn't misery, there's still hope, but it's not easy is it?
When I was eight or so, my mum simply left and my father became more and more psychotic. He seemed to think it was terribly important to destroy any trace of ego in his children. He also made a lot of noise about not telling us what to do, or how to think, or how to imagine our futures. Which amounted to no guidance for us boys, just a lot of abuse. I think he imagined this would arm us for the real world, instead it shattered us and left us largely defenceless.
I've had to operate on instinct for a very long time. My instincts haven't always been great. It's all I have though. My instinct tells me that if it seems very important to talk about these things, then I should. What have I got to lose?
You can't just be creative, there has to be emotional content. You can't just fuck off into a magical realm of fantasy and create beauty, there has to be a point.
When I was a kid I once made myself sick by reading books. I sat in the backyard in winter, hiding from my lonely, terrifying childhood, reading and reading until I became quite ill. There is no escape into other worlds. The fact that I have talents only means that I can keep myself on a treadmill of creativity until I have another mental breakdown. Because being creative makes me feel tremendous until the reality of still-no-fucking-money hits me.
The ups and downs precisely fit the pattern of manic depression, which is a lot of fun to think about. Manic depression, or bipolar, or possibly just being traumatised resulted in a complete breakdown that re-ruined my life in my twenties. It's just garbage upon shit upon garbage and this year I think I just have to ask people for money. I don't know which people (probably rich people) but I have to be paid for my work or there's just no real dignity to it.
I don't need to be understood, I don't need a hug, or therapy, I need a lot of money, like enough to not be afraid of middle aged and elderly poverty.
Anyway, last night the fact that I moved schools sixteen times sort of hit me and I saw that I never stood a chance. If I'm going get out of my predicament I'm going to have to make art about it. Is this art? This right now? Well, it's a story. The end.
I changed schools sixteen times before I was eleven. It occurs to me that if you wanted to completely derail a child's education, this is a good insane way to make sure that happens.
Imagine an increasingly fucked up boy being introduced into a new world of mutual incomprehension over and over. And over.
That was the first half of my education, that was the extremely shaky footing and this was followed by a high school, just the one, that had no idea what to do with me. Out of a possible final year score of 100% I achieved 28. My life was already over.
I'm fifty. I own nothing. I am entirely financially reliant on my partner. Every venture ends in disaster/embarassment.
I am currently working on: a sculpture project that is open-ended in that I have no idea how it will make money, a book project that may be published but is unlikely to make money. A podcast project, a video project and I want to start making ultra low-project horror comedy films. I have all these ideas not because I have boundless energy, but because I have to try everything. Surely something has to work.
Ideas aren't the problem, I've got hundreds of those.
When you don't have money, it's impossible to make money. I only continue because at my age now there is no chance of any kind of employment.
My life isn't misery, there's still hope, but it's not easy is it?
When I was eight or so, my mum simply left and my father became more and more psychotic. He seemed to think it was terribly important to destroy any trace of ego in his children. He also made a lot of noise about not telling us what to do, or how to think, or how to imagine our futures. Which amounted to no guidance for us boys, just a lot of abuse. I think he imagined this would arm us for the real world, instead it shattered us and left us largely defenceless.
I've had to operate on instinct for a very long time. My instincts haven't always been great. It's all I have though. My instinct tells me that if it seems very important to talk about these things, then I should. What have I got to lose?
You can't just be creative, there has to be emotional content. You can't just fuck off into a magical realm of fantasy and create beauty, there has to be a point.
When I was a kid I once made myself sick by reading books. I sat in the backyard in winter, hiding from my lonely, terrifying childhood, reading and reading until I became quite ill. There is no escape into other worlds. The fact that I have talents only means that I can keep myself on a treadmill of creativity until I have another mental breakdown. Because being creative makes me feel tremendous until the reality of still-no-fucking-money hits me.
The ups and downs precisely fit the pattern of manic depression, which is a lot of fun to think about. Manic depression, or bipolar, or possibly just being traumatised resulted in a complete breakdown that re-ruined my life in my twenties. It's just garbage upon shit upon garbage and this year I think I just have to ask people for money. I don't know which people (probably rich people) but I have to be paid for my work or there's just no real dignity to it.
I don't need to be understood, I don't need a hug, or therapy, I need a lot of money, like enough to not be afraid of middle aged and elderly poverty.
Anyway, last night the fact that I moved schools sixteen times sort of hit me and I saw that I never stood a chance. If I'm going get out of my predicament I'm going to have to make art about it. Is this art? This right now? Well, it's a story. The end.
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