"Like most Artists visual or literary, there is an underlined fear of being too honest or straight forward with my work. It is like people will know you’re full of sh*t if you say what is really going on in your head. So you explain these things in the dimmest way possible, if you explain at all. Of course this has the benefit of allowing people to read into it how they like and see what they want... which is more important than any silly message you might think is important on a whim."
- Adrian Comeau
(read this interview, you'll fall in love maybe 3 times: i am other people)
I have been getting really lost these past few weeks, months, years . . . I wind in and out of this little maze that decorates the backyard of my life, getting into scrapes, climbing trees in flats, kissing boys I probably shouldn't be kissing, really not committing to anything other than my passion for running my brains out and covert operations involving chocolate and reading in bed, and refusing time and time again to that strict labeling into a genre. Being confronted about my desire to remain anonymous more than once has taken quite a toll and I think it's time I start addressing this need/want/nervous tick.
I really can't pin-point the exact moment I decided to keep all my secrets to myself, and only leak out crumbs of information about my myself, just that one piece of toast at a time. I think it was a mixture of teenage rebellion, infatuation with a boy who was really time-machine, and the fact that the cold hard facts are more boring then the temptation (the wink, the slight sneeze at the scent) of a secret (I like my S's in a row).
I enjoy not spilling my guts about my life almost as much as I enjoy keeping your secrets to myself as well. My veins are running thin with silly, shallow, underpinings of my, and other people's lives . . . with the more than occasional gob of the dark matter that makes up those secrets which are told with locks on the doors or a hand over the eyes. Those are the scarier secrets, these are the foodstuffs which are more hard to digest. Quite frankly, those secrets are the ones that shape the way I understand people. A gross amorphous cookie cutter, I do say. But that is exactly exactly EXACTLY what it is.
I remember a great long essay I wrote about being grounded, committing to life, and having a foot in the door. It was clear. It was concise. I wrote it with a clear head. I'm now having a hard time figuring out how I wrote like that and the answer is: anger. Yes, my friends, I was angry, and probably just angry at all the boys I was in love with at the time (I wrote this a while ago . .. you know post-teenage angst . . .), but that is besides the point, indeed. I was angry enough to be clean cut in my dialog about the world; I completely directed my focus STRAIGHT FORWARDLY. Guessing from my apparent need to find some sort of clarity, that is what I need to do: get mad. Get even. Get Irish. Maybe that little fire and spit will kick drive me into some sort of gear so that I can kick-start myself on my little way.
Where I need to get going to . . . now that is the 450 dollar question (why I picked 450 dollars is another secret . . . most old habits die hard).
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