The Writer Painting

Life is, upon reflection, a rather large and stupid thing. Ridiculous, brutish, often ill-mannered—an odious dinner guest. It also appears to be the only thing. The all-encompassing…thing. A combination of traits which can lead one to overwhelm or confusion, a little nausea, perhaps the occasional fist-print in one’s bedroom drywall. For some, maybe to a parade of doomed, frantic attempts to set the whole shitshow on fire, like a cornered-rat clutching an empty Zippo. Life is also quite short. For us. Which given its tendencies could be received with some bonhomie: “Splendid—at least this won’t take long.” It’s also possible Life’s brevity holds something more if we bother to look—maybe. Some poignancy or hilarity to be found at the edges. Unusual moments here and there or a tender, slow smile—somefuckinghow—sublime, redemptive, in spite of Life’s sometimes horrible and inane aspects. Those are what I look for at any rate. What I attempt to create. It’s my only defense. That and my stuttering remembering to simply let go of any expectation it should add up to something, because in fact it does not. Anyone saying otherwise is fudging their numbers, which is entirely understandable given our predicament. To surrender ALL of one’s fudge sounds mad, hopeless, terrifying, a bottomless plummeting. However, if you hang on/don’t hang on, the most phenomenal and miraculous nothing shows up. So—holding no delusions this will go “well,” I resolve to meet it squarely; brawl out back in the alley next to the dumpsters. Not for heroism or accolades, but for the absence of an alternative. Breath by breath, take in all its absurd and awful splendor: breath by breath, give it back just as good and just as hard and just as stupid as I can muster until my legs give out. Love,
 Matt