A few months back, a prominent culture blogger (whose work I generally like) wrote a little piece, which has remained with me, breaking down some of the differences between that element of society which is creative and that which is not. While obviously the main premise could be argued against on the grounds that many highly creative and prolific people have managed to reproduce and a few have even forged fairly close relationships with their offspring, it is on the whole accurate as far as the masses of would-be artistic types who did not have what it took to avoid falling into the snares of conventional bourgeois life, myself sadly included among these. This demographic makes for a fat target in most areas where delusions of cultural dynamism or meaningful personal achievement are concerned, but its absurdities are not usually delineated so incisively, and with a clarity that even it can understand, as in the above article.
While of course the underlying theme of this article is my sense of my own personal failure, or at least my innate non-artisticness, which while little more than a vague death-feeling that has descended upon my consciousness, is the only one of these feelings I can confidently identify, it is my (probably vain) hope that I will not dwell on myself too much. Suffice it to say, I have not done anything remotely artistic in years--not so much as redecorating a room (or even envisioning doing so), or designing a bulletin board, or displaying the slightest hint of flair either in dress, conversation or movement. My mental life has been completely aimless for years, and I have not felt an energy or passion or any sensation apart from worry about money in so long that I am nearly at a loss to speculate on what the source of any former interest I ever had in any area of life ever was. I am an absolute vegetable. I am dead to everything that might bring flair or spice into my life.
I was reading the other day about the expat American theater scene in Amsterdam--their shows mostly center around the issues of tourists, culture clash, progressive politics, etc. However the shows are well enough attended that one of these particular troupes has been there since the 90s, apparently able to support themselves and lead the bohemian life in this city of art and bars and coffee houses and adventure (read: sex)--seeking tourists from all over the world. They have at the very least averted one of the great soul-killing dilemmas which faces modern man, that of having to live within the corporate system and culture while being at the same time temperamentally and intellectually estranged from it--this latter ensuring that you will not even attain to the consolations of status, superior income and advancement in that system.
I don't believe that marriage and children in themselves are the problem, in my case especially. I was not married until I was 27 and I did not have my first child until I was 32. If I was ever going to do anything substantial, creatively or otherwise, it ought to have been long underway by that second date especially. The problem is my brain and my enthusiasm for day to day life and what has happened to them. Perhaps I am starting to get worn down with having very young children. There has been at least one person in my household in diapers constantly since 2002 (and this will continue to be so probably until early in 2014). The last child won't be in all day school until 2017, at which time I will be 47 years old! My two oldest are currently in 4th and 5th grade. If I had stopped there, like most people do, their pre-school years would seem a mere blip of time, years in the past now. They would be halfway to college age--of course they still are, but as things stand now, we will probably be desperate for them to go because we'll need the space. But everything would be so quiet and empty without all of the little ones, and I'm sure I would not be any smarter or more creative, or even richer. There has been a small spate of articles lately (this week, actually) about the travails of 'older' parents--most of the writers are about my age--a few of which offer laments that perhaps they should have had children earlier. I take some consolation from the fact that I seem to be holding up pretty well physically in comparison to some of the other parents. While my energy for literature is diminished I have much more of it for taking care of children than I would have had at twenty-five, at which time I would really have felt imposed upon. 'Chasing them around' causes me little trouble. It is true I am always tired, and I never get enough sleep, but not much more than I was ten years ago. One of the main problems of having many children is that nearly every day you are roused out of bed not merely before you are ready but by someone screaming or jumping on you or demanding something, which is quite disorienting and stressful. I did really notice the effect this had on my mood until one day last week, doubtless as a result of the days being short and the sun rising fairly late, I actually woke up to silence, and was able to collect my thoughts for a few minutes before I sat up and started pulling my clothes, and it was remarkable how this calm awakening effected my mood the rest of the morning. But literally, I have woken up in this kind of quiet state without any kind of outside prompting maybe five times in the last ten years.
But I am supposed to be writing about the life of the real artist here.
It is not what I have just written, or at least that is not its essence.
I gather from the article that for the urban creative type, sex, and especially new sexual adventures, remain very real aspects of life until the brink of old age. I still think about having sex the overwhelming majority of every day but over time it ceases to be real or to seem possible, for the likes of you anyway, in the mainstream world.
I would be most happy in any of my children grew up to have legitimate bohemian artist souls and live accordingly; I still imagine it as the highest kind of life, the great illusion, because real artistic skills and thought processes, and access to a society of people of similar qualities, make you the most alive, the most engaged with life, that you can be. Nearly all that is worthwhile in experience, social, sexual, intellectual, is open to you...
I cannot expand further at this time. I am too exhausted, and my concentration is absolutely shot.
It all comes back to the American in Paris thing though, the fantasy, and how the fantasy is real to those who understand it, and in most important ways is more real than whatever it is he is supposed at any given time to understand as real.
