Baby, if you’re going to create

“–you know, I’ve either had a family, a job,
something has always been in the
way”

“Something has always been in the way.” This is the most damning thing to hear when you want to create, and you’ve got excuses. I’ve got excuses.

My story is the same as everyone. I’ve been working a demanding job. I’ve bitten off more than I could chew with my yoga training. I’m building a maximum viable relationship. I’m stumbling in the dark planning a wedding.

None of this takes away this relentless, insidious urge inside to make something beautiful, to write something revealing, to read something juicy.

“One day,” I think, “one day, I won’t have so much to do.”

Then, I’ll sit down with the most perfect 100% organic cotton bound journal with handcrafted recycled paper and inspirational sayings from dead philosophers and restart journaling, only *this time* it’s every day for forever, for real this time.

Then, I’ll take my latest and lightest and thinnest MacBook Air to the trendiest coffee shop and get an exquisite organic fair-trade cup of espresso with foam art made by the barista with a copy of “If This Isn’t Nice, What Is?” on the counter, open up Xcode and Photoshop and Coda 4 or 5 or maybe even 6 at that point, and make that one app I’ve been talking about since Ramses took over the Nile Delta.

Then… and then… and only then…

But, as LL Cool J says in Hey Lover, “It’s a fantasy, that won’t come true.”

So, it’s a tender reminder from Charles Bukowski: “air and light and time and space have nothing to do with it, and don’t create anything except maybe a longer life to find new excuses.”

air and light and time and space

“–you know, I’ve either had a family, a job,
something has always been in the
way
but now
I’ve sold my house, I’ve found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I’m going to have
a place and the time to
create.”

no baby, if you’re going to create
you’re going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you’re going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you’re on
welfare,
you’re going to create with part of your mind and your body blown
away,
you’re going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you’re going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment,
flood and fire.

baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don’t create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.

© Charles Bukowski

The luckiest

Floor lamp

Well I’ve been on the road, as you can see with the suitcase on the floor.

Tonight, as I sit here at the bottom of my bed, looking at my nearly-burnt-out floor lamp, laundry unfolded, by my side a half eaten banh mi because I pompously asked for it to “be drowned in Sriracha”, and paid dearly for it, I’m reminded of this poem by Charles Bukowski:

My doom smiles at me

there’s no other way:
8 or ten poems a
night.
in the sink
behind me are dishes
that haven’t been
washed in 2
weeks.
the sheets need
changing
and the bed is
unmade.
half the lights are
burned-out here.
it gets darker
and darker
(I have replacement
bulbs but can’t get them
out of their cardboard
wrapper.) Despite my
dirty shorts in the
bathtub
and the rest of my dirty
laundry on the
bedroom floor,
they haven’t
come for me yet
with their badges and their rules and their
numb ears. oh, them
and their caprice!
like the fox
I run with the hunted and
if I’m not the happiest
man on earth I’m surely the
luckiest man
alive.