Uncorked Whine

My email provider is inaccessible, as it has been every time I’ve tried to access it for a day or two now. This is just the cold, hard iceberg tip of my current frustration in life. There is also the fact that I live in one of the most backwoods countries in the Western world, and possibly the least cultured. And that my room is a dusty mess. And that the human is an highly destructive parasite. To further make this a fun li’l post for youse all, what follows are details of one of several major fucked-up-nesses. (I apologise - well, to the extent that my self-indulgent whining allows me to while not nullifying its own existence.)

I used to feel that with time and devotion I would, before too long, become a successful writer (and possibly also, actor). Successful enough, that is, to comfortably support myself and partner financially through my art, and to be renowned and critically supported enough to no longer feel severe doubts about my talent and skill and the validity of my work, or like some God-forsaken amateur. Then I grew up a bit – that is, got a bit duller with age – and nothing had changed for the better regarding my position artistically. Some things had improved, sure – my skill, for example, and the projects with which I became involved were somewhat less unprofessional; but other things had declined – my delusion that I was destined to make the ‘big time’, for example, and the energy of my creative focus. So, all in all, it about equals out to the same squalid situation I’ve been in ever since, at age 19, I realised that I was a writer (as well as, to some extent, an actor – which I’d already held to be so).

Who knows? Things may yet suddenly change and I’ll have finally more or less ‘made it’, but life always seems to behold for me at ’most every turn a new and unexpected nasty surprise. What will I discover next? That I’d actually just been writing, over and over, for years and years, ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy’?

I hope things are easier and pleasanter after death. Doth death (how funnily clumsy soundeth those two words adjoined? – I’ll start the sentence afresh)... Does death, life’s opposite, await with pleasant surprises? I’ve only approximately 15,800 days left ’til I find out. How long have you?