Whew! It's a rough patch going in life after things in which there is minimal security or gaurantee. One thing, keeping up with a blog while living on a skid row situation. I use that term minimaly, I'm not hooked on dope or anything, I just hit a patch of joblessness and monitary flatline, all while pursueing the act of painting. It's a feeling of no control, of extreme disappointment followed by anger and frustration when the life forcast for the pursuit of happiness seems unattainable. For me, that stuff has always come around in my time like a chronic sickness. It doesn't have anything to do with anybody else, it's just a set of obstacles placed to defeat, as they are set for everyone; however, adversity is harder for some.
My tough times always seem to bare the illusion of finacial bust, or an extreme lack of finances to accomplish goals, moreover, the lack of opportunity to find work sufficiant enough to build savings to accomplish goals. This is the social struggle of the American Dream. To come from poverty and stay in poverty. I always hear the critiques; "That white dude ain't got no worries. Shit, he got everything." Why do I use the term "white", because such discimination is real, pegged auto-rich by color.
Anyway, having nothing all the time isn't so hard once you realize that you've been given all you need, and that any extra would be overly cumbersome. I realized this through me talking and walking with God. He told me. Once I came to the notion that it would all work out better from the perspective I was given all the impatient frustration of struggle and the seemingly impossible ability to get in the game went away, for the most part, it still comes around when I wonder too far off, or impatience is allowed to build. But I figured I am in the game, at best I came be for that period of time.
This post is coming from way out in the desert ranchlands of West Texas. An old friend contacted me way back in March when these struggles began. It wasn't till three weeks ago that I discovered what exactly his contacting me ws about. He wanted to offer me a job helping out as a hand on a ranch, a ranch he had been employed as forman to rebuild, a 100,000 acre ranch that had been previously neglected. The masterful thing, and I had expressed this to my collegue, Zupp, was the question about artist patrons. Who are they? Where are they? When will they arrive and why aren't they coming? I guess it takes more of that time? Ironically, it would be that the storm of the last few months would settle away into the blue of the sky with my patrons arriving dressed in the same broken bankrupt suit that I wore also, completed wrags and sunburn skin, worn out boots and tatered jeans. They came back from town with nothing, nothing but heartache and memories of the fast paced flash city life! They came back as broke as I was, dreams that rose up in spirit and topled over, only to understand that they were always there at home, just waiting for them to come back.
For me, the opportunity has been given to help on this ranch with a little pay (security), time and place(to chase my painted vision around in a room), and the revived memory of the old times when we were all children, and we were all as rich as we needed to be with nothing at all, except the people who cared to see us achieve the things we love to do. So if you've followed this writing, and you've read along with me openly in my despair, thank you. It seems that just as the ship is surely sinking into the watery abyssal, that no more water touches the toe before the rescue ship arrives, and with better accomodations than the busted vessel sinking to the bottom of the sea.