Create or Bust

I read a wonderful quote today by Lawrence Hill, the author of Some Great Thing and The Book of Negroes. He says "for those who struggle to make it in the creative field, my wish is that you find enough work to live with dignity and enough space to give yourself over to your artistic drive. It's a risky way to live, I know. But for those who were born with a "loose chromosome" (as my father used to say) and who simply have to dance or sing or make music, or paint, or sculpt, or write, it's the only way to live."

How many of us creative folks are suffering from lack of time/money to actually create? Oh the courage it must take to leap into the unknown, just to do what you love best. Lawrence Hill certainly didn't know if he was a good enough novelist to "make it," but he took the plunge, living off what he could get at the time.

I envy him, and then I don't. My sensible voice wonders how many of us can actually make a living off our one true love. And my life at the moment holds no space for me to drop everything to follow my passion. But my creative voice, my manic-induced energy, calls out to me at different points in the day. It worries that I will one day find myself suffocated by the mediocre and the sensible. It wants to do something great...great in the sense of personal accomplishment combined with public acknowledgement (and the ego perhaps desires the latter more than the former).

One of my all-time favourite artists is Martha Wainwright. I love her boldness, and her lack of inhibition in song writing. The following may offend some due to the language, but so many times I have wished that I, too, could express the anger and frustration in this song. To create something so powerful must be the greatest release! This is BMFA...

Poetry has no place for a heart that's a whore
And I'm young and I'm strong
But I feel old and tired
Overfired

And I've been poked and stoked
It's all smoke, there's no more fire
Only desire
For you, whoever you are
For you, whoever you are

You say my time here has been some sort of joke
That I've been messing around
Some sort of incubating period
For when I really come around
I'm cracking up
And you have no idea

No idea how it feels to be on your own
In your own home
with the fucking phone
And the mother of gloom
In your bedroom
Standing over your head
With her hand in your head
With her hand in your head

I will not pretend
I will not put on a smile
I will not say I'm all right for you
When all I wanted was to be good
To do everything in truth
To do everything in truth

Oh I wish I wish I wish I was born a man
So I could learn how to stand up for myself
Like those guys with guitars
I've been watching in bars
Who've been stamping their feet to a different beat
To a different beat
To a different beat

I will not pretend
I will not put on a smile
I will not say I'm all right for you
When all I wanted was to be good
To do everything in truth
To do everything in truth

You bloody mother fucking asshole
Oh you bloody mother fucking asshole
Oh you bloody mother fucking asshole
Oh you bloody mother fucking asshole
Oh you bloody mother fucking asshole
Oh you bloody...

I will not pretend
I will not put on a smile
I will not say I'm all right for you
For you, whoever you are
For you, whoever you are
For you, whoever you are