I'm sitting in a bar by myself. My only friend in the place was the bartender, and he got off work five minutes after I walked in. So I'm sitting at the back table, doing the tortured artist thing--yeah, it's that kind of week.
The lonely drunk artist thing, though, doesn't come with that much prestige. No one is going to respect me as an artist for scribbling in a notebook while sipping on a mini-pitcher. Well, maybe they'll consider me a poor man's Dylan Thomas in a hundred years. From my perspective, though, this is no real enticement.
One can only be tortured artist thing while alone, though, and that is a drawback. I'm not gonna say I'm friendless, though. I have plenty of friends...just none who live in the same city as me. My best friend lives in another continent, my best friends in the country live in Minneapolis and Los Angeles, and my best friend in the state lives two hours away.
I've just found out I will not have a place to live in a few weeks. Good options are not on the horizon. We will either paying money we don't have, or we will be living in ramshackled tenements. It's not where I thought I would be at the age of 42.
Earlier, I spent hours roaming the streets of this town. It's not an unfamiliar thing to do. I used to do the same thing as a teenager. Then, it was to smoke and listen to music. Now? To try to find a place to raise my daughter.
I really don't have the temperament for this life, I'm discovering. I find myself needing not to think of it too much, but apart from being with someone who must process out loud, I found myself without distraction. It's been months since band practice. I'd just play on my own, but the sound of my guitar seems to send the family to the other side of the house. I would hang out with friends, but, as I said before, I don't seem to have any in the area.
So what do I do?
It all seems terribly melodramatic, I know...and compared to the very real joy of which I do partake on a daily basis, it is inconsequential. I will freely admit this. I still have my turns--I know I will always have them. But they are not my life. They are not my existence. They are not who I am even a significant portion of the time.
It seems, though, that uncertainty and isolation are gonna be a lot of who I am for some time. I just wish I was the kind of person suited for suck a live.
Ah, to be the social butterfly who lives in isolation. To be the one who needs closure in an existence devoid of it.
It is important, though, to maintain perspective.
A little while ago, this couple covertly snuck into the men's room together...I can only assume for some attempt at illicit fun of some sort or another. In thirty seconds, however, they were covertly sneaking back out. I can only assume the illicit fun wasn't very thrilling, or the surrounds did not create the proper ambiance for said fun.
In comparison, I'm not doing all that badly.
At any rate, I'm gaining a certain amount of perspective from the weird week and my most recent turn. Plus I've finished several prose pieces and two lyrics, one of which has been on the burner for three years.
There's something to be said for being the right kind of loser, I guess.
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