Somebody Owes Me An Apology!

the author, consumed with self-pity

False Dependencies lead to disillusion and depression. You can never get enough of what you don’t need, but convincing yourself of that when you feel deprived and needy is not easy. You’ve got to first assure yourself that you’re going to be just fine without these things you’re terrified you’re not getting enough of. Sex, money, status, or some subset of them is usually what you’re afraid of losing out on.

The feeling that everyone else is getting his or her needs met but you aren’t is an easy place to get stuck. Some people never leave that hole once they fall into it. It colors and warps everything from the moment they realize they got left behind. I remember when I was a child, I saw a live TV version of the Pied Piper of Hamlin. I think it was on Ed Sullivan’s show and starred Van Johnson, a movie star at the time.

Anyway, in this tale the Pied Piper played his magic flute to rid the town of rodents, but when the towns folk refused to pay him, the pied piper took all the kids and led them to a beautiful playground which was then magically sealed itself so no one could ever leave or enter again. One little crippled boy couldn’t keep up with the procession, and he was locked out. I remember thinking “I’m that little crippled boy. For as long as I live, I will never forget nor forgive this injustice!” You see, I had an active imagination, especially when prompted by self-pity.

Now it is sixty years later, and I’m just beginning to forget and forgive my justifiable resentment. While I’m still sure somebody, somewhere owes me an apology, I can no longer remember what I’m waiting to be apologized for. As I write this, I’m listening to Chopin’s Nocturnes, and am reminded that he wrote all his amazing compositions in a very short life span, which involved a long decline due to tuberculosis. I’ve had almost seventy years of good health during which I’ve managed to accomplish…not much. But I’m still waiting for an apology.

Banned Again

I just received another message from Facebook saying my account has been suspended for fifteen more days due to “unusual activity.” When I sent an email to a friend with a copy of their message, the email itself was rejected by his server because the subject title “banned from Facebook” aroused suspicion. This latest stint in Facebook prison began when they uncovered a picture I’d posted a few years ago, showing Hitler feeding a squirrel. Something weird is going on.

The most contentious thing I remember doing was sharing a post about Israeli abuse of Palestinians. Might that be at the bottom of all this? I have friends who routinely share pornographic videos on links Facebook, with no problem. But Hitler feeding a squirrel, well that’s just pushing the envelope a little too hard.

If Facebook doesn’t want my business I guess I should look for another social media site, except this whole wasting time online things has gotten old. Like most of us, I have no idea how much time I have left on this planet, but I don’t want to waste it posting funny pictures and clamoring for approval. I’ve already made contact with everyone I ever knew, and they know I’m living in Thailand, retired, and obviously wrestling with too much free time.

Slapdash Artist

I was put here for a reason. Part of that reason is to invent new things for other people to enjoy. Writing, acting, photography, painting…whatever I can dabble in.

I have a short attention span, so dabble is the operative word here. Never known for rigor, I try my hand at many things in the hope that one or two of them will please me and maybe someone else. Most of my output suffers from a lack of Quality Control. This probably explains why I’m not rich after a relatively long life in the creative arts.

I’m not lazy, but I am scattered. As I approach my seventieth birthday, I find myself living on social security in Thailand, where things are cheap enough to allow such a thing. Where things are inexpensive enough to allow a dabbler to live a life of relative freedom from want.

I’ve just returned from the art supply store where I bought another $3.30 canvas. I will spend less than an hour splashing paint on it and wiping it around haphazardly. Then I will photograph it for posterity and consign it a closet someplace in this ramshackle house, where it will be discovered after I am dead and disposed of in some way that seems appropriate to the finder.

The problem I face in putting all my eggs in the “artistic creativity” basket allows me to wonder what I should be doing with myself when inspiration fails me. Sometimes inspirations fails me for an entire day. Then what?

Most people enjoy numerous avenues of diversion, but not me. I take no interest in sports or politics, and do not read mysteries of adventure novels. If it’s not art, I’m not interested.

So I’m a bored elitist. For one who can barely hop, my bar is set too high.

Michelangelo had the patience to rub a slab of marble with an abrasive cloth until it turned into a human figure. I can’t be bothered to wait for oil paint to dry, and so must rely on acrylics. My numerous creations escape my recall. If I can’t remember them, why would anyone else notice?