“A Modern Artist,” A Memoir




Please go to the “Mental” homepage to see how I’ve incorporated “A Modern Artist” into this, my second novel.



This memoir is currently being incorporated into “Mental,” my second novel.

Stay tuned!



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“You can search throughout the universe for someone who is more deserving of your love and affection than you are yourself, and that person is not to be found anywhere. You yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection.” –Buddha


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I am a bag of chemicals. Sometimes I am only the slightest breeze; then, maybe I am more. If my life has any purpose, it is not in living for others. I am alone. I am unhappy. There is nothing new about this. I keep trying to write about it and it never makes any sense.

None of this may make sense to you, but it could still be a profound truth. Nobody I know tells the truth. Everyone I know tells me to find my own truth.

I am tired of being polite and wearing pearls, tired of standing in front of a room filled with children–neither can bring peace.

If it is true that there must be a god, then mine is letting me write this down. This is a very different type of book. I have a voice that can no longer remain quiet. I have a voice that can sing a song no one has heard before, but everyone somehow already knows. I will say what I think even if I am the only one listening.

I want you to know, dear reader, that I have been stuck in something that other people call a life and that I just call a big disappointment.

Nothing inherently has a name and yet words are all we have. Some people really do care about communicating with other people. Some people realize even while they are doing that that there is really no reason to do it in the first place.

How can you really share an experience? How can you really understand another person? Spirituality and art are all there is. An honest expression is the only truth. What is real is subjective.

Who really cares about art or honesty or spirituality? Maybe they don’t even really exist at all. Maybe those things are just things you thought people were talking about when they were really talking about paying bills and growing up.

I have just spent a few hours reading stuff that I wrote when I was younger and maybe sicker. Maybe healthier and more innocent. Even I was having a hard time following what I was trying to say because words actually do fail the insane and people are forced to read between the lines of what they write. Just know that this crazy person longs for someone to read what she writes and try to understand it the way that she tries to understand legitimate art from famous people she emulates.

Will someone someday think I was right about something? Probably not. Somebody will just keep showing these “books” to my psychiatrists in order to get my dosages upped in what is really just well-meaning concern. Or just use this to commit me permanently because unfortunately, I still have cadillac insurance.

Maybe it is just the typing of words that brings a faint peace. Maybe it doesn’t really matter if your husband or your mother or your students understand you, after all.

Maybe it is inescapable that the things you have written down will be interpreted as you going crazy and rambling about how unfortunate you are. You are mystified by people who actually think that can write about life. Maybe it is inescapable that you will survive on the brink of confusion for the rest of your life and that it is just plain stupid to try and make sense of that.


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