LOVE THE ARTIST

I'm driving Eastbound on 90/94 from the Irving Park area. It's about quarter till midnight the time when the skyline looks as big as the rockies and as bright as a country cosmos. I realize I haven't even been paying attention to the sight along one of my favorite routes in the city. My head is full of snapshots from the nights conversation: the post-grad, 20-something fear that drives us to want marriage and children, banana republic dresses and pearls against a fresh cut lawn, the ultimate cop-out. Realizing that what we are will never be what we loathed so strongly in College, the loathing that put us in a fit of crazed isolation and half-hearted depression. All those Miami girls with their bouncy hair and Tiffany necklaces and coach bags and North Face jackets that acted so much better than the rest of us, were indeed better than us. With a head full of absolute shit I realize I don't have much room to take notice of much anymore until I see what my brain has been wired to see: a billboard.

LOVE THE ARTIST

A white backdrop with giant red painted letters. There's a model on there, lining the side, but I pay no attention. It hits. What if.

Replace all the billboards with LOVE THE ARTIST and we would. We would love the art, the culture, the thought, the opposite. The investment banker is stripped down to nothing, the artists hold all the glory. I watched the city dissolve. Things could be so much different.

I'm watching Terrance Payne on RTN

http://roadtripnation.com/TerrencePayne

and I'm tired of being compared. Sexy skinny flare leg "The Artist". But shit, they all say screw em. It's time to stop listening to the data monkeys and start loving the artist.

I am confused

It is true. The wanderluster is thinking she wants more than anything else in this giant world that she has covered just a fraction of that she wants to get married and picket-fence it. No rugrats yet. Just a garden and a dog. Oh, and that spouse that you get to come home to. This is ridiculous.

But that's a whole other chapter. The point is, i am confused. All the time. Constantly wondering which thoughts are mine and which thoughts I've adopted and retained as true over the years. This is a struggle. Such is growing up with Brain Analytics. And the struggle often comes out on these pages. I am revealing this because it bothers me that although I am quite proud of the five years and 121 posts, it bothers me why it is all so dark.

Anonymous said...

You seem to have a indescribable talent to write, and write well...but why such a dark and bitter view...I know its dark sometimes but why always??

3:06 PM

Thanks for shedding the light on the topic secret anonymous.

but that's the goods as far as I'm concerned. Call me dark, call me a psychologist, seeing the rough and tumble of a soul is what makes them real, makes the laughs a little more sincere.

I do laugh. Often.