Walking on Thin Ice

I’m in limbo. Smith’s got the bio, and I have no sense of purpose other than him, his life, his past life, and the hope that I will find new places to shoot with my camera. How can I become so jaded and lazy? I’m not even writing any poetry. I have golden lines, but they can’t be put in any kind of sequence and they’re too short to be individual poems - they’re just little blips. And I’m afraid to get sucked into poetry again. It hurts my soul. It makes me crave praise. It makes me compete. I don’t want to compete. I want to be enlightened and calm and I want the honey sun of art and constant new vista.

My art excites me but it’s expensive. Canvas is expensive. I gotta get a show, but who’s gonna buy down here? There are only so many gringos.

I print my photos. More money. I wanted white borders, which they gave me last time, but this time they didn’t and my pictures are cut off. Twenty-five dollars gone. Money money money money money.

I hate relying on his gubment pension for money. I want us to be sufficiently wealthy to continue doing what we’re doing… and at the same time I want more material comforts. I want our own bed and couch and cozy yellow reading light, not this thin light we have here in fluorescent land. I want a kitty cat. I want, I want, I want. Two years without our own things makes me feel impoverished. Our things are immaterial, our talent is a thin cloak. No one sees it unless we prostitute ourselves.

This kind of thinking goes on in my head: I’m smart. I have a high IQ. I should be able to figure out how to survive from my creative efforts. I could write the great American novel. If that doesn’t work, I’ll write thrillers.

Then I think, Smith’s got the real story. Our book is real and it should be celebrated and it could take off and he’s better than Kerouac and he’s a real artist and through and through he’s an artist of life, he’s an explorer and adventurer and he tells stories well. I don’t have anything over him other than I can pry those stories out of him and I’m a good editor.

Lately I want to see the ocean, to see sea turtles. People tell us to wait until autumn to go to the coast, because it’s too hot now. I’m impatient.

I’m addicted to seeing new cities. That and Smith, who’s so darned interesting he makes everything else pale. I do not care to talk to anyone else anymore unless they have useful information or a perspective that helps me on my path of enlightenment. I want to be enthralled, I want to be enlightened. I suspect tho that I’m already enlightened, and this is as high a vista as I’m gonna get. I want to be a pioneer but I’m used to looking for bosses. But people ain’t my bosses anymore. There are no authorities.

Smith’s birthday was yesterday and I didn’t get him a present or bake him a cake. I didn’t write him a poem. I didn’t make him any art. I hate making poetry and art as tho it’s commissioned. I asked Smith repeatedly, “Can I make you a cake? Can I buy you a cake? What do you want for dinner? Anything special?”

“It doesn’t matter. I have everything I want.”