Tuesday, 5 August 2014

Likes of me

»Ain't nothing out there like me except me,« said the angry raccoon with a big gun and a Groot bestie, but due to some late night conversations and some even later nightly contemplation, staring at the ceiling above my bed (not a gun, but a can of bug spray in my hand, on the lookout for the fucking rapist mosquito), I got to thinking about the likes of me.
                A mate of mine is just starting a relationship with a girl he likes a lot and she likes him, but she is not like us. All this sounds super weird; I’ll explain it: I’ve forgotten along the way that certain people are not … see, I can’t even find a good word for this now. I want to say artists, but that’s not it. I wanna say sophists, but that’s not it either. Erudites? Creative people? I’m sure if there’s a word for it, the Germans have it, though what I want to say is there are people in this world who can see through a dozen layers of bullshit and straight into the inspiration of things and there are some people who really can’t. I’ve forgotten this. I am usually so good at putting labels on people (nice labels, cut out and painted with great care and small flowers on the edges), that I’ve elapsed I have carefully surrounded myself just by people who are of my cloth. Everyone I hang out with reads, talks, thinks, vast majority also creates, designs, describes, challenges, even elevates things. Poets and actors and painters and photographers and passionate muses, oh my.
                One of the people I am fond of comes from a hard working class environment and he is so determined to be surrounded only by artistic types, he is so oddly, so evidentially over-doing it. It’s endearing in him, because he is very likable, but to that he may be an exception. Many men like to be associated with artists, even go as far as to call themselves artists – or, better yet – directors or editors – there’s some good pussy to be found in these circles, it’s just that very often these people suck and can be the worst.
                However, my thoughts did not get sucked into thinking about pompous losers who give artists a bad name. No, I was thinking about something else entirely. I’ve forgotten that these people exist. The everyday people. Not even unintelligent folk, just… normal. I’ve forgotten that there are probably more of them than there is of us, because that is something I find hard to believe.
                People, who are not inspired. Not temporarily, on the low down, but truly, genetically, fundamentally uninspired. Who never read, never write, never see movies for other purpose than entertainment, never argue about whether Svetlana Makarovič is fucking annoying or not, never think Dalai Lama is a spoiled condescending old dick, never wonder if Gaza had it coming, never write any pamphlets about it, never wake up in the middle of the night and start sketching their feelings, never ever go to a cultural event and think: this was great stuff. I wanna try and do better.
                Surely these people feel great passion and probably even great joy, some probably have great jobs and make a lot of money and go on long journeys to places I can’t afford to. They read from the top of the summer bestsellers list and their children are good students. Their favorite movie is Shakespeare in Love. They can do their own taxes and change a light bulb and when they have sex, they don’t take lessons from kinky porn but Kama Sutra – if at all. When they need photographers, they ask their nephews. When they have to vote, they are really fervent about it. Their family reunions are about politics, weather, sports and kids. Maybe an occasional catalogue vacation.
                Be it one having a terrible fear of such mentality or a shy and polite, albeit distant respect for these people, matters none in this situation. The question was… How do you talk to someone like that? Two lines in, you will be considered a freak and they will start to distance themselves from you. It may be romantic the first two hours of passion, but later on, it may become worrisome. They have pills for people like us now. Normal people take a very long time to face their demons or their quirks, because us, creatives, we tame those nasty demonic bitches very early on to serve us. “I may be a psychopath”… Yes. I know. It makes for a great story. Write about it. “I may be a sadist”. Sure. The next time you play an instrument, prove it. “I may be a bad person”. Okay. Put it on the stage and let’s see how good you are at being bad.
We are not afraid of being interesting, because the story is the one currency that never gets old. The normal, though… This may tire them. It may burden them. How do you woo a normal without lying to them or without trying to change them?
Suddenly I understand the bit about the fish and the bicycle. Not the bit about the fish and the bird, because I am omnisexual and would fuck anything in any form I was in, but… It is really hard to mix these two kinds.
… Says a woman, married to a General who is never ever late and gets angry if I buy crafts or buttons or books…
… Naa. If the guy wasn’t a total closeted adventurist and a romantic, he’s never get to taste this sugar. It just goes to show I choose my anchors well.
Not so much my challenges.