I love showing up at the clean white page these days. In the song he’s kind of talking about writer’s block, a word he can’t remember. It’s cool to have the stretch I’m going through right now, because I don’t even know what writer’s block is.
There’s this life out there that I’m living. I take notes when something strikes me and then I come out here to try to see if I can make sense of it. The blank white page keeps getting filled up. To think that my blog was nothing a few weeks ago…it didn’t exist, except inside of me. And to see what putting myself in a position to create has made possible. It’s pretty fucking cool.
And in a sense, this discovery that I have something to say, has to feel a little like those cave painters must have felt when they first realized they could make art. Art didn’t even fucking exist. But, one of those dudes (probably Captain Caveman) found an animal bone and some charcoal and realized he could take the clean white page of his cave wall and turn it into something that people wanted to look at.
There was something creative inside that seemingly primitive guy that was worth expressing. I can relate to that. I used to spend so much time living in a constant state of worry about what other people will think of me. I wasn’t sure who I was, but my best guess was that it was a coin flip between troubled loner and comic genius. These days I’m finally seeing that what people respond to and love is the real me.
I came across this quote today, "We will discover the nature of our particular genius when we stop trying to conform to our own or to other people's models, learn to be ourselves, and allow our natural channel to open."
That’s exactly it. I’m discovering my own genius because I’m not letting other people write my story for me. I’m filling in my clean white page myself. And it just comes so naturally. It’s the real me on paper.
I was talking to my therapist the other day about how writing is optional breathing. We breathe. We have to, but it’s involuntary. Without it, there is no life. For me writing is the same. Breathing is okay and all, but it’s just the bare bones of life. Writing is real life for me. I feel most alive when I’m filling up clean white pages with what’s inside of me.
I look around. Like the cave painter. I see a woolly mammoth. I choose not to draw her. I drink too much. I take her home. The next morning I have to draw her (a map back to the bar). I have to trace back to what the hell was I thinking.
That’s kind of a ridiculous example, but it’s not far off. Things happen to me. I make bad decisions. Life for me is taking all of the hands life deals and turning it into something playable.
Eminem said it like this, “Nobody asked for life to deal us with these bullshit hands we’re dealt. We gotta take these cards ourselves and flip em don’t expect no help.” And that’s what I’m doing out here. Bullshit happened to me. So fucking what? I want to face it. Take it on.
Conor talked about that today too in “Another Travelin Song” saying, “I will find my fears and face them.” The alternative he says is to “cower like a dog”. And I guess that’s why I finally have something to talk about. I lived my whole life cowering like a dog, letting other people tell me what to do and who I was.
But, Eminem’s right. “Don’t let em say you ain’t beautiful. They can all get fucked just stay true to you.” No one has the right to take our beauty away from us. We can choose to live cowering. Or believing we’re not beautiful. But, Eminem flips the cards the same way I do. He starts “Beautiful” saying he can’t get out of a slump…he’s so fucking depressed. But, his solution is to pick up his pen. To fucking fight back.
Pick up your pen, man. Or your paintbrush. Find your clean white page and fill it up with the shit in your life…good and bad. Since I started doing that I feel almost guilty these days that my life is so full.
I have none of the standard things that most people find fulfillment in…no great job, no spouse, no big house in the burbs, no nice car and no money, but man I’ve never felt so alive. I tried to listen to this artist today who writes beautifully, but all his songs were a fucking drag…dwelling on shit that was out of his control. You can stay in your ruts and feel sorry for yourself or you can actually live some life.
I want to face my past and get the fuck over it. I don’t want to let it dictate how my future goes. That’s my job. I’m in control. I’ve got some traveling to do. There’s a road I’m headed down with writing. Writing lets me see everything more clearly.
I used to think I was the woolly mammoth…this hideous beast. I let the world put these fucked up beer goggles over my eyes so that I couldn’t really see who I was. I was drunk on what other people told me was true. My life was a constant hangover.
But, since I started writing a lot, life is actual life. I’m enjoying the shit out of it. I’m appreciating other people’s cave drawings and throwing mine up here for everyone to see. I don’t have to hide or cower. I’m comfortable with me and I want the real me to be known…the fucked up parts and the great parts. I’m not beautiful trying to put my best foot forward or pretending to be something I’m not. I’m beautiful as is. I’m lucky to be able to fill up these pages with the real me.
And I bet that original cave painter felt pretty lucky to do what he did. He probably went through the motions in his life too, doing what everyone else did. But, then he discovered that all the shit in his life felt better when he could express himself. Everyone wanted him to be a hunter. Or a gatherer. But, he just wanted to fill up that clean white cave wall. Dude was himself and he was fucking beautiful.
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