Being creative is also a leading contributing factor in being addicted, to a substance or an activity. Thinking of that writer (William Burroughs?) who shot his wife to death at a party, doing his William Tell imitation. Van Gogh, and his partner in crime, Gaugin, both died alcohol related early deaths, probably both were suicides. Depression, gee, there's another favorite of creative folks. Schuman leaps to mind. He spent his last year's in a mental institution. Schubert and Delius died of syphilis, after lives of debauchery. Tchaikovsky drank a glass of water infected with cholera. Hemingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, rampant alcoholics. Hell, it goes on today. Look at the mugshots of celebrities, people who have lived the American dream of wealth and fame. Nick Nolte, Mel Gibson, even little Lindsay Lohan. You can see the disappointment in their eyes. Is this all there is? Well, not by a long shot. But what is wanted, what is missing, is not a new hotel in Dubai where rooms begin at $35,000 a night. It is the substance of life, the inner journey, one that has no price tag and does not involve credit cards. Meditate, goddamnit! Help someone else! Create something! Oh, and this little ditty came out of my last figure drawing class, near the end of the semester, when I was just glad to have completed all my assignments, and didn't care all that much what happened on the page. Ink does that for me. Can't erase it, just have to let it flow. Rather surprising things happen when I go to that place, where I am totally nutso and know that I am directed by Something larger than my self. Wish I could live there more often.
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