EVERY ARTIST HAS A WOUND

My writing mentor says every artist has a wound and mine is my mom dying. He says he means this as a compliment. I’ve been listening to Bon Iver’s Skinny Love for over 10 years. Approaching 15 years since the first time I watched Zach Braf’s Garden State. If you’re familiar, you know the oceans stand still, the fog swallows you. How the fuck does fog swallow you? I swear too much. 

Earlier today Kate said Ry after you’re down with school and applying for jobs, I want you to make it your goal to—and I thought about what she might say and I thought that if I were to bet money I’d bet that she was going to say that I need to stop swearing, but she didn’t say anything about my goddamn or fuck or shit man, she said that I should make it my goal to get something that I’ve written published. 

People talk about love and when you see people facing each other in front of the marriage crowd the thing you see before you is a kind of love, just like the thing you see in the court room during a divorce hearing is a kind of love and the people’s faces you see in traffic with eyes darting between the road and their phone on their lap, that’s a kind of love. 

You know, this is really me at my existential best. I mean writing. I mean if you gave me a sword I would dip it in ink and carve my raaaaaa into the ribs of trees. 

I’ve aways wanted to be a rapper and delight in a flow so fast it makes heads spin like when I was in 9th grade and went to basketball camp during the summer and practiced spinning the orange basketball I stole from camp on my finger and I got good. 

Dear Readers or Reader or maybe lower case reader like God when you stop believing but then years later you realize you need something above you like a star and so you start talking about god again but you keep it lower case because you know it’s not what people with upper case think it is. 

Like love, am I right. 

Dear Reader. It’s a beautiful thing to be able to talk to you, write these things like strumming a banjo from the porch and have the neighbors walk by and slow just to hear the howling, it’s beautiful beautiful beautiful but you have to be here you know, you can’t be windows up in traffic or pumping pedals in the 5pm spin class to sweat out the nothingness of another day.

Am I right. 

Tell my mother not to worry. Tell the angels to tell her.