The hardest part is letting go of your dreams: On not creating work (content warning-gore/gross stuff!!! also trich...)
"Her condition worsens and after a while festering sores start erupting all over her body. Though both of them know that death is inevitable, the mermaid asks the artist to document her decay in his painting. This he does and the bond between the two grows stronger as her situation deteriorates. When the sores increase, he adjusts his portrait accordingly, even when the infection turns into a grotesque mutation that covers her entire body. When he fails to find the right paint to truthfully depict the colours of her infections, she tells him to slice open the boils with a razor blade and use the abundantly flowing pus instead."
"I'm going to pull out your eye and show it to you!"
-Natural Born Killers
"This is my secret place. All my lost treasures are here. All the beautiful things I have ever lost, they are here. All the time I have lost is here. Everything is hidden in the darkness."
-Mermaid in a Manhole
There are a lot of reasons for not creating work under capitalism, from the bog standard butt-hurtness that your Nobel Prize Winning Novel has undergone a moonlit monster transformation into an automated rejection email, to the whole like-having-to-have-a-real-job-thing, to the mental illness induced by both. (People are not robust, we were never meant to survive, let alone create.) We lose our art and find it again, manifested in unphotogenic neurosis, the bald spots, blank spaces and medication induced memory loss that build up to form your little life, marking the days in an advent calender pop of pill bottles. The tinfoil tear of meds is such a sad, degraded, diminished sort of christmas chocolate! I think of my days of the week medication organiser filling and refilling in one of those corny time lapse videos, monday-tuesday-wednesday-thursday-friday-saturday-sunday, again, again, again! Til there are no more pills to take and no more art not to make. And apparently you're meant to clean out your med holders once a week as mine, left unwashed for four years, has started to leak something brown and bad. My achievement for today is ripping three hairs out of my head, it is an achievement because it is not more. Both my achievements and my failures are defined by what I haven't done, what I haven't **quite** pulled off, by the empty chairs where the damage could be oh so much worse.
Mermaid in a Manhole is a horror movie that exemplifies this Dorian Gray decay. I was going to make art on it, or write on it. Or both. But then I got sick, then I got unemployed, then I got sicker. When I was getting sicker I had the idea of putting my art in the cubicles of art galleries, something about careers going down the toilet, something crude, something scatalogical, something, obvious, attention seeking, another puerile cry for help with a party hat on. But then I got too sick to do that. Then I though I could write out descriptions of all my unrealised works but then I realised I was too sick to do that either.
Apparently Hannah Hovarth in Girls stops writing in Season 4. I haven't watched it but a feminist literature panel said it happened and that was probably cos it made her more relatable. Creating work is not normal. It is not human. It is deeply inhuman, deeply foul, this is why you keep on getting those cease and desist letters from The New Yorker.
This could be longer but I can't be bothered to finish it.