Argh... feeling so down. A bit like Marvin the Depressed Robot here. My story book that I left on the bus before I went back to Canada still hasn't returned. And then there's the heating issue. No matter what I also can't seem to cleant he apartment properly. I'm like the human imbodiment of chaos. Seriously. I tidy the place up and then I turn around and knock a glace down, spilling stuff everywhere. The only way for the place to stay tidy is for me to never set foot in it! And my bedroom, with teensy tiny pieces of paper everwhere I look that I have to go through to make sure they're not important before throwing them out. Somehow in going to Tornto and back I seem to have entirely misplaced my only Canada-UK voltage converter! Grrr. Not to mention my feet are consistently freezing and various other things not functioning up to standard.
And no one is here in London at all. Total "only living boy in New York" syndrome! And the stores are all closed because British shops take any oppotrunity available to NOT be open.
But what's really bugging me underneath all the small stuff is this:
Though I may love drawing and doing art better than writing at times, I know this, I am incredibly good at writing stories.
I've known a number of writers in my time, a number quite wealthy and successful, yet in all my time on this Earth I have only known a handful of other writers of narrative fiction or screenplays who are as good as I am, and even the ones who are as good, are good in different ways. No one I've ever met can do what I do and certainly not in the style I do it in. I am one of those people who are truly excellent at certain things and abysmal and other things. And I was sold on a myth that excellence is naturally recognized. But I go to the movies these days and watch the trailers thinking WTF, I could do so much, so much better... but it doesn't matter because I'm just nobody. Our culture is being decided on and the important conversations of art and writing and moviemaking are taking place in books and screens all over the globe and I'm nowhere, just a whisper. And no matter what I do I can't make my voice heard. I wouldn't care so much if what we were all listening to was genius, but it is all mostly CRAP and BULLSHIT.
And I have come to the conclusion that talent doesn't signify in whether you make it. All that signifies is luck and whom you know, the accidents of birth and place and nothing more. Failing that persistence sometimes does the trick. Either I'm not talented or special or whatever, or, talent is actually detrimental or insignificant to a person's success in art. And the thing is, I've read a lot out there and I know I'm good and would be even better in a favourable enviroment.
And then I think, I don't even know what it would be like, to work in the industry and to have success. I've never really gone that far so how do I even know I'd like it. And when you've worked for something for so very very long... how can even success be anything but disappointing. The less success you have, the more you have to imagine for your future to balance it out, the more failures the more grandiose my dreams of future success can get. I'm owned it, I think to myself sometimes, but the universe owes nobody anything. There's no one calling the shots, just blind chance and things can always be so much worse, and just feel lucky for what you have now. Be grateful, because you know how bad it can be. All I know is the world is not fair and we humans aren't helping it any with our stupid bureacratic systems where you never get to communicate with a real person. You don't even get the one to one experience of having a door slammed in your face. Just a form letter in the mail, that might as well have been untouched by a single human hand or thought for all you know.
And I'm not even going to get started on my love life...
All for now...