DEAR PHILLY (SET FREE)

DEAR PHILLY: You're right. We have to lie. It's part of surviving in this world. We lie everyday . We make decisions every day that are lies . We lie mostly to ourselves. And we are idiotic to think anyone else is really speaking their truth. We don't know our ass from our heads ultimately. And we're all just going along, babbling like chickens about our lives and none of it means anything. All of this is an illusion. SET FREE, Beacon NY.

DEAR SET FREE: As you near truth it is as if you enter a new dimension with its own set of rules. You become overwhelmed with the horribleness of it all and yet you see more beauty than ever. People never change. The blood is always right there, ready to be spilled. People are beasts which can turn on you instantly. The successful artist must learn to protect himself. You are out of orbit, out of step. And so like an astronaut, you must have that suit. I have so many problems as an artist I might as well just give up. I know I have the rare gift but I was born too dumb and I learned too late, too slowly, too clumsily; it's as if the Gods have made a drunken wager on my worthless ass. But I guess that would mean that at least one of them is rooting for me (haha). Anyway, it helps me to think of lies as more of an avoidance of truth than an outright manipulation. If you are truthful with yourself then the lies of other people can not harm you. Lies actually become part of what's interesting about humanity. One of my favorite quotes is "You are only as sick as your secrets". Lee Stringer quoted it but I'm not sure where he got it. So listen, years ago, a certain person in my life, let's just call him a good friend, once lied to me, right to my face. We were alone and he knew I knew the truth but the pressures of his reality were such that the consequences of my truthfulness had overwhelmed him and he reared up like a cornered animal, hissing and snarling. The specifics are not important and like all conflicts, the facts and reasons become too contaminated to sort out. The only thing to learn from these types of situations is to pay attention to the clues that lead to such a tripwire of atrocities. I will just say that I had simply reminded him in conversation about something he had once told me and he outright denied it. I mean, venomously denied it! Right to my fucking face! It was obviously a threat, a stated regret for him having ever allowed me to get so close. Anyway, I learned more from the failing of that friendship than the relationship itself. It was one of my greatest gifts as an artist, much like my first marriage or my mother going crazy and always trying to kill herself. The problem with most artists from what I can gather, and especially around here (Beacon), is that they consider themselves artists and surround themselves with artists. They live and breathe art, think and speak it, endlessly, religiously, which is the surefire way to destroy any chance for what I consider art. It is like some meathead frat-boy always talking about pussy but then you shove a big round ass in his face and I promise you, before he can even get fully hard, he's gonna cum in his pants, whimpering and drooling, longing for mommy. He is a coward just as these artist types are cowards. Their lives have little stake and therefore, neither can their "art". They spend most of their energy becoming characters in their silly little art communities, taking their rightful place in their neat little circle of chairs where everyone applauds one another simply to get the applause themselves. God, I hate them. I hate them more and more each day. Fraudulence at its worst. I bet they hardly know how to shit authentically. I would much rather hang around a bunch of Republicans any day. So, you know, I have a deep desire to take them down, to pop their pathetic balloons. The endless flock of the pseudo artist, the hipster. It's exactly what Bukowski would often talk about. These people will only allow themselves to get so close. They can only stare at the sun so long. They don't have the stomach. They're like moths fluttering around a porch light. And then LOOK at their "art"! It is more revolting and meaningless than the very things they're supposed to be rallying against. Anyway, I've gone on long enough about those creatures. They're really not worth my time and I had better start learning to just ignore them. So listen, here's the thing, once you realize what those old blues guys meant by the "crossroads", you know the terrifying reality of becoming a true artist. You know the real stakes, the true cost. And it is never worth it for you in your lifetime. But by the time you make your way up to that counter, you really are fucked either way, whether you move forward or fall back. It really is as brutal as anything which takes place in the animal kingdom. Wildebeests at the watering hole. There's absolutely no getting around it, we all must drink. So you wobble in with the herd, down that dirty bank. The crocks dive in. The water swirls with movement. But your thirst is already a death. You have no choice. Two sets of bubbles are heading your way. It doesn't matter, you must drink. You must lower your head and drink. It has always been this way for us all. None of us want to face it. Most of us refuse to even look. We would rather lie. But in the end, we all must drink.