Last night I’m grappling with this idea that success of an artist is linked to a personal painful history. Why else does Van Gogh to cut off his own ear? My assumption is he was abandoned as a child, beaten up at school, got confused with the drink, heartbroken and divorced, found an art class when he was 23 and became the class wunderkind. I ponder this at a Burke Williams spa. I’m naked in a jacuzzi drinking a guava smoothie. It’s time for the steam room.
Am I under a ceiling because my life was too easy?
Maybe we move to India and raise a vegetable garden. Teach them how to work with mud and build strawbale houses. Go homeless for a week and sleep on the Earth. I felt ashamed of being privileged when I was younger. I didn’t ask why I deserved this, but felt out of place at the expensive restaurants and on the Mexico cruises. I’ve made the claim that people fed by the silver spoon face a harder, different set of challenges compared to someone who’s poor. Lisa argues that it’s not exactly harder, but different. They’re both hard. It’s hard to rise up and up if your feet are stable on the floor. You realize you can never fully sink into the ground. You move back in with your parents. You take your old room back. There’s always bread and deli meat to prevent starvation.
Indulgence can be a distraction at times. But now in my late twenties, I’m spending more on ‘personal wellness’ than ever before. My mind is racing now, trying to amass as many experiences as possible.
The steam room makes me nauseous. It’s Egyptian cotton robe time. My friend and I go outside to the co-ed patio lounge. A fireplace warms up our feet. What do we do now? Go online and buy some Apple stock? Cocktails? Louge lessons? Sure. But first let’s look at Thailand tickets.