11
It was so hard to be happy watching TV, and tea didn’t exactly make me any happier. Alcohol was out of the question, but I imagined having a glass anyhow, and it seemed that all that would do, given my state of mind, was make me angry and possibly go on a rant—even if nobody else was there. Alcohol and I, in this life, anyhow, were a bad combination, and even a small amount, at this stage of my life, could lead to a horrible outcome. So I quit thinking about that. I thought, instead, maybe I’ll try taking a hot shower before I start watching TV at night. That would shorten the amount of time I had to watch TV a little, and, hopefully, I’d feel refreshed, and more relaxed. I remember, around the age of 20, living in the North Carolina mountains with my grandmother, for a few months, and reading romantic literature at night. I was reading some letters by the poet John Keats, and, in one of them, he mentioned how washing up, as if preparing for the day or as if he was going somewhere, I imagine, refreshed him, and made it possible for him to go right back to his studies, and his work, and continue, even longer, and how he was pleased by this. So, I thought, maybe something like that will work for me—except I’ll be trying to get away from the activities of the day—and just watch TV. But I thought maybe it would be worth a try. I prayed a little, too, to be happier while watching TV, since, in my opinion, watching a little TV every day is important. If these were the old days, it would be like sitting on your porch, or sitting around a fire—essential relaxation time.
Now, because of my neck problem, which lingered from the previous day, on into the next, as if I had an injury of sorts, I realized that I wasn’t going to be composing a lot of jazz and classical, as that would require me to use my mouse a lot, putting my neck in an awkward position, which, at this time, because of my injury, if that’s what it was, was unacceptable—even if it meant I somehow became that much less of the greatest artist that ever lived—even if it meant I didn’t become the greatest artist that ever lived. The price was simply too high—I was in too much pain at the end of the day, too uncomfortable, too stiff, too unhappy and unable to relax. I’d actually come to think that being able to relax is just as important as being the greatest artist that ever lived—that it was better to just be a great artist, and be able to relax, instead of making yourself unhappy, and, besides, if you made yourself unhappy, that could affect your work, and, I thought, most likely in a bad way. Sure, a lot of artists were unhappy and they did great things, but it seemed to me that, if those artists ever pulled themselves together, and became happy, then they might have gone on to do even greater things.
Where we’re going—nobody knows. I did a not so realistic nude yesterday, and my Dad, had a problem with it—saying that he doesn’t like nudes, that suggestion is more powerful, which was not particularly surprising, so I tried not to let it get me down. We’re just different people, at completely different stages of our lives, and I was going to have to accept that, and be happy, I think, potentially, at least, keeping my nudes to myself, as, well, my parents are not my target audience. They belong to a different time, and they are old, and unlikely to change—and I suppose, in part, because their sexuality is different from mine, they shouldn’t. So, it seemed the best possible solution was simply to continue doing what I wanted for the audience I imagined, and keep those paintings to myself, since my parents’ comments, and their reactions, to those paintings, would not be helpful, positive, or constructive, at least for me, and the person I believe myself to be, and do my best, by any means necessary, to accept.
It is a little annoying to think that, as with differences in religious beliefs, they probably believe their view to be the one and only true, correct view, and, as such, they cannot, and never will, at least in this life, accept my path. But, I must ask myself, then, do I, in fact, think that my path is the only true, correct path? Not necessarily. I think the main difference between my path and their path is that their path doesn’t accept my path, whereas those that follow my path, I imagine, anyhow, are more likely to accept a conservative, entirely monogamous path—as if it were, and in my mind it is, a kind of sexuality in and of itself. And what about religion? How do I really feel about those that do not believe in an afterlife? Do I secretly believe that they have simply not yet come to see the error of their ways? In a sense, I suppose, but I don’t really see what they’re doing as a mistake or an error—I see it instead as a lifestyle, a means of coping with this life in whatever way allows for them to be at their best, or the best that they could hope for, given the circumstances that define them. Yeah, I believe I’m right—that good people will eventually wake up in heaven whether they believed in it or not, and will see, then, what they might’ve been missing out on, but that doesn’t mean I would feel inclined to tell them, for example, that I’m not real wild about nudes, etc. That is to say that I’m not real wild about their world view, if, that is, they should feel comfortable enough to share it. I would hope, instead, that I would tolerate it, and indulge them, for the well being, and the peace of mind, of the both of us.
Pray for me. I’d still woken up early, and I’d gotten up, eventually, to take out my mouthpiece and go back to bed, without my clock, as it seems, then, that it is a little easier to freely think and daydream, when that is my objective, without the strictness of my clock, and, also, I’d discovered that I was naturally breathing an extended three count. So, just as my natural breathing rate in the day time was a compressed three count, it seemed that my natural breathing rate, in my morning state, was an extended three count, that lasted a little longer than three seconds. I also considered that musicians keep time without a clock, when they perform, and that, perhaps, I too, should keep time, without a clock, at least sometimes, when I think or pray. But I wanted my clock to get back into a four count, and a four count in and an eight count out, as I felt I needed the structure, and I wanted it, at this time, anyhow, to pray, so I eventually retrieved my clock around 7:30, just breathed, a little, and then prayed until 8:00. I tried praying on a four count, but i lost track of the count—it seems that, right now, anyhow, without practice, at least, I can only pray, and keep count, three seconds at a time—that, when I try to do it for four seconds, I lose track, and exhale on three, or go past three, or fall short of three, as I utter my syllables, second by second. I did not pray for Ursula—I had not been praying for other people—and, in fact, in the past, i rarely did, but, now that Ursula mentioned it, I thought it sounded like a good idea, and that it would help me, and make me a better person, too. Of course, I thought, I should think of others, and ask my creator to assist them, since, as it happens, their happiness is my happiness.