The following is an excerpt from a larger work entitled “Riddled with Holes.” It’s about being broken but gluing and taping my stupid crap together and rolling ever forward sticking stuff back on when it falls off.
I’m having an anxiety attack and I can’t feel my lips. I have no idea how I ever thought I could make a movie. Thank god for the Cameraman. At least he knows what the hell is up. As an artist, my shame and embarrassment, the realization that my transition from fantasy to reality is a giant, detail-filled slog that I’m ill equipped to deal with can’t stop me or I die a weird boring death watching other people fail while pointing and laughing.
I’ve given up before, bowed down before the twin addictions of romantic fallacies and carbohydrate bingeing. It’s a weak ideology I inherited. I reject it. I fight it. No donuts for discomfort, no romantic obsessions to distract from my shame.
I will go down singing out of tune, painting ragged edges, writing scripts with obvious flaws. My deathbed will be a patchwork of half-baked ideas and poorly executed madness. Together it will look like a fever dream against a black sky, an army of badly drawn March hares screaming about the apocalypse. I will have to be O.K. with that. The masses that point and laugh at my offerings? They can have at it.
There will be those that despise me and they may be correct in their reasoning. Failure is comfortable, an easy chair. Someday I may retire to a quiet oblivion but not today. Today I’m having an anxiety attack and I think I’m a fraud. I must be doing something right.