Is It “Only Money?”
December 13, 2007
I have friends who actually believe that money is not important. I know, on one level that they’re right. As much as I bitch about being broke, I have never gone hungry or slept on a park bench. Still, the fact that I have spent most of the money my parents left me on my dog’s spine concerns me. Now, these are the facts. I have the cottages in Vermont. I have, now, exactly $9,899 dollars. THIS would be FABULOUS, ideal, wonderful, heavenly, IF I had a job. But I don’t have jobs. I don’t DO jobs. I do “freelance work”. I know that somewhere there is an ideal place for me to work on a regular basis, for example, Marvel Comic Books, in NYC, where I was a temp for a week in 1989. Everyone working there was a maniac. They dressed like dirty pirates or cartoon characters or homeless people, they didn’t shower, they didn’t have desks. They sat around, smoked dope, and came up with brilliant, out of the box ideas for which they were rewarded on a large scale. I think they made $9,899 dollars a week.
I look for singing work, “gigs” and the going rate for four hours in a restaurant or club is $100 per musician. Can you believe that? I can’t. Funny, the waitresses in the clubs I sing in make three times the money I do. Oh, Oh, off on a poor-me rant. GOT TO STOP THIS! POSITIVE! I AM NOW A POSITIVE PERSON! A HAPPY, THANKFUL, POSITIVE PERSON! Okay..better now.
I love my dog. Love is expensive. I can get a job. I can rent the cottages. I can make my Vermarvelous Pants for people who want comfort and yet the look of a perfect ass. The novel I am writing is going slowly because I don’t have a plot. This is because I have been convinced by my bohemian friends that money is not important and why bleed yourself to death writing a novel if you aren’t going to get paid for it? AND, when you get paid for it, your dog gets sick, or you get sick, or the book gets terrible reviews, and GOD! Isn’t it just a better choice to go the way of the winding road until you hit a rock. Then, climb over the rock. Then go outside in the dark and breathe deep and know that the oxygen you are inhaling is free, as are all things worthwhile, except dog surgery.
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There is somebody in my house in Vermont. A nice man is renting my house and I am thrilled because that man is renting my house and sending me money so that I can rent an apartment in Providence. Now, wait a minute. Does this make sense? I thought so, a few weeks ago, when I was working here, singing, planning, organizing, hob-knobbing, but as of today, as I lugged a bunch of my crap up two flights of stairs on the East Side, all the while knowing I would have to lug the crap back down the two flights of stairs a few months from now— as of today, I thought to myself, “Gee, I don’t feel very good in my head” I sat on the stairs, dirty stairs, very dirty, and considered my situation. I blamed the town of Bridport , Vermont, for not having a Dunkin Donut’s or a Cafe, a bar or a nightclub, a college, tennis courts, health club, movie theater. Then I blamed myself for wanting those things. Then I blamed myself for having those things here in Providence and not taking advantage of them because I like staying home and reading in bed. Now, if I like staying home and reading in bed, why don’t I just move back to my own home, in Bridport, and wait out the winter with Charles Dickens and Mark Twain? Now that I have rented my house, I miss it. It is not available. That is why I was so sad today, moving into what I thought was a nice apartment on the East Side. It is somebody elses house and always will be, no matter how many knick knacks, rugs, paintings, books, personal items I stuff into it. Renting makes me feel insecure, more insecure than worrying about how to pay my property tax. It’s silly, because none of us own anything fully. Still, sombody is in MY house and i am in somebody else’s house, and it’s ridiculous in a way that I can’t quite comprehend and it is making me very very sad.