Today, my friend asked me to be the back-end of the SC franchise. He said he considers me the most realistic of the group, and, so, the best suited for that position. The practical ones, he further explained, were not as involved in the overall creation process, and thus did not benefit from their inclusion as much as the artists. Maybe this is my own foolish pride talking, but I was a bit disappointed that this is all he thinks of me. I may not be a painter, or a musician, but I have a creative drive like the others. My art–or the imitation of which (take your pick, readers, I’ll not protest)–isn’t as apparent or obvious, but it’s still there, damn it. It’s here, in my head, and I’m scratching my eyes out trying to give a literal shape to my visions, to keep myself closer to a whole. I wanted to say no, to get angry or short with him, but what have I really done of late? What have I written down, how have I moved towards my ideal? A poem, a script, a re-write and an editorial, all in the year since I’ve known them. One sad little publishing credit–in digital format–and I’ve got the nerve to feel hurt by his proposal. Oh, I can do it, all right–I’ve done things like it before–but that will take away the scant time with which, I imagined, I’d work on my dreams, as opposed to lamenting the deterioration of them. I’m torn. I want to be the faithful little fawn, so accustomed am I to working for my treats, but I want my own voice, too. I want my own identity. Shit. I feel like crying.
March 15, 2011
Odo as the tree