Before I get dreamy I am very proud to announce my second ever essay I’ve written about my gender identities. I’m very happy that The Establishment gave me the time and space to write this piece and the time to be scared about it prior to publication. Read that here.
I will talk more about that later on.
So let’s talk about the stuff I daydream about shall we?
When I was a baby writer my daydreams looked like this.
I would travel. I would fuck everyone all the time. I would write, mail things to some patient patron who would then get the publishing together. I’d get drunk in Tunisia and pose nude in Paris, they’d send me a check.
Rinse, repeat, greatness.
I wouldn’t be rich with cash. I’d be rich in lovers, words, experiences and je ne sais quoi. Right?
As a teenager, I imagined myself as a big titty Henry Miller type writing filthy degenerate love letters and having some 30 year affair that people would write about for years to come.
Some lover or other of mine would of course be an artist and would get famous after painting me nude like a Matisse or would photograph me like Frida Kahlo and those would be part of my artistic legacy.
I also dreamed of being somewhat mysterious and reclusive. Maybe seen wading bucky naked in a river, but refusing a lot of press. I’d foment rumours and lies about myself for fun.
Y’all can tell what I was reading at that age.
Fast forward 20 years and while theoretically that dream is one I could hold on to, now my dreams are different.
My artistic daydreams involve things like, what if I could go to one of those writer colony things? What if I could actually afford that without it fucking up my life? What would I even do with 2-6 weeks of time devoted to my art. No commute, no 12 hour work days, just me and my brain and my laptop Petunia.
I’ve thought about it. Friends have sent me some I think I would qualify for. But, per usual my thoughts turn to my actual life. I couldn’t get 2 straight weeks off for AWP/recovery from AWP. Instead of a colony or residency, I wonder if I could get away to a Motel 6 within a 20$ cab ride from my house for a day and night?
I dream of figuring out how to have one day a week for my art. Not house cleaning, grocery/household shopping, working, recovering from the week (at present my health dictates that 1 of my 2 days off a week to be spent mainly in recovery mode) without leaving my partner in the lurch or cutting up our not as much as would be great quality time together?
I dream about getting an essay into some Big Fancy Ass Publications.
I dream about my work, reaching people who need to hear a voice like mine for whatever reason.
I dream of writing ALL my passion project things while listening to one of my epic playlists in a carefree manner.
I dream of sometimes talking to baby writers.
Maybe a little non academic teaching.
Workshop leading that exists within the framework of stuff I believe about art?
I dream about having the time and energy to get back into photography and taking bus accessible day trips with the Uniballer so we can do that together.
I don’t need that life of leisure and artistic fuckery that I imagined as a kid.
Sometimes I get sad about the artistic life, not lived. The missed events and workshops and colonies and things. Sometimes I get angry and sad. I’ve cried about it. That’s okay.
I let it roll through me. I can’t dwell on the life not lived for too long. I have to go to work, I have to write, I have to get shit done.
Okay I’m going to chill out at the dayjob. Work on some poetry and be that shit.