In my apartment, I craft masterpiece comic books, walk by masterpiece paintings, perform masterpiece songs from past and future masterpiece albums, and yet, when it comes down to it, I'm just a face in the crowd. I don't know why that is really, but it doesn't look as if success will be the thing that kills my muse.
I'm very grateful that I've managed to get a handle on the crash-and-burn outcomes of so many of my past fixations on individual women. If I'd never learned how to manage that aspect of my life, I would never grow as an artist or as a person. I remember back in the eighties and nineties, when those kinds of crash-and-burn breakdowns occurred on a regular basis, how utterly lost I would feel in the aftermath of those experiences. I would want to be anything in life but a visual artist, and I saw getting an art degree as a pretty useless pursuit.
Here we are in history at a place that I feel as if I've prepared myself for since 9/11. Back then I realized that my girlfriends from my psychotic hallucination days probably would never show up (they still haven't), and all the money that I felt I'd won somehow as Richy Vegas would never show (it hasn't), and that I might never get recognized for what I felt I might have been (I never did). What did I have left? So, out went the cigarettes, and later on the booze and drugs, and I now feel as if I've come to terms with my deal with the unavailable women. So now, all I really have to do is not get sick from something I could catch pretty easily, even if I'm careful. Well, that last thing makes me just another face in the crowd these days as well.
An oft told tale from Robert Johnson's legend concerned his early days as a performer and an artist. Bluesmen would roll through his neck of the woods on the circuit every so often, and Robert Johnson would play for them. At first they would give him shit for his lack of ability in playing and all of that. But, in successive trips, as these guys would roll through his neck of the woods, Robert Johnson would begin to impress them with how good he had become since their previous trip through. I think about that when think about all these stoner musician friends I give my new CD's to, only to realize that a lot of them didn't even bother to listen to them. Hell hounds on your trail boys.