Björk “It’s Oh So Quiet”
Halloween really did kick ass this year right? The Rivers of Grue ran redder than ever before and everyone was positively brimming with love. It made me wish to spark up a Cuban, play some Lou Reed and rub my hands together like a treacherous Bond villain. Granted, I’m the good guy and far more Godzuki than Godzilla, but I do love nothing more than stroking a pussy. Anyhoots, this outpouring of support and affection encouraged me to shed a proud crimson tear as I marveled at the family we have assembled. So I was on a high, soaring above the rooftops like an ostrich could only dream about. My self-belief was at its very apex, I scribed both Tricks and Treats and Keeper’s Grim Fairytale, two pieces I really enjoyed writing, whilst my spirits were raised. After all, your best work comes from either extreme high or cavernous low. Which brings me to my next point.
This evening, sat in company of blood relatives, who don’t ever read my work unless I staple it to their foreheads, I decided that it was time to share some of my personal achievements over the past week. I relayed to them that Ron Perlman had followed me on Twitter, and Avril Lavigne on Facebook, not to be a megalomaniac, merely because I respect both artists and it shows that my work is getting out to such icons. The response I received when presenting Ron’s fantastic elongated face on my laptop to my nearest and dearest was this. “He follows over two thousand people, don’t think you’re special love”. It saddened me that it was considered conceit when, in truth, I was reaching out. I left the room barely a moment later and haven’t returned since. Now, I love my folks dearly and they’re more supportive than many so I count myself fortunate. But how, after 39 years of knowing me supposedly intimately, could they not clock such an obvious plea for interaction?
I can chat about dear old Beryl at no. 67 who has just had her cataracts done but the moment the conversation leans somewhere nearing my passion, they switch off in a second. It got me to thinking, these self-harming teens who act out to gain some sort of acknowledgement, are so often creative spirits and simply misunderstood. Such souls are like delicate flowers. Should you tend for them, offer encouragement, then they’ll perk up some. Leave them parched and take their sunlight away and they soon wither. Why is it that I could kick a snail into a kettle from ten yards back and the Grueheads would meet me with rapturous applause, but unless my folks catch Schwarzenegger taking a lumpy dump in my pillowcase, they’ll discount my procurements.
It’s both a blessing and a curse being a creative soul. Of course, I’ll be starting with the curse side of things so that we end on a positive. Heaven forbid you should be a little different from the other kids in school. It didn’t take long for me to ascertain that I was cut from an entirely different cloth to my classmates and, thirty years later, I am still punished for thinking out of the box. However, it’s not all bad. The kicker, and the reason I shall scribe to my casket, is in the blessing.
“I marvel at the rate the neurons traverse synapse to synapse in your brain”
I can get knocked down a thousand times and on the 1001’st I’ll make it back to my feet, with my chest proudly forth and a steely glint of determination in both eyes. Knowing that all of my hard work is appreciated is my primary dream realized. Money made or lives changed? Both would be grand admittedly but can currency buy the moment when a sufferer of a terminal illness, already two years past life expectancy and on daily morphine, starts writing because you show her some belief? Nope, not even close. That is one of the humbling events that have transpired since picking up the Crimson Quill and bleeding it for my loved ones.
I’m speaking of a troubled young lady full of shackled light, who has self-harmed since as far back as she can remember, not cutting because of something you wrote. There’s not enough dirty cash in the world to purchase that feeling. So sometimes I’m required to take some body blows from my own flesh and blood; I know they mean well when all is said and done. But I’ve lived in captivity my whole life so if anyone can see my soul then it should be these people.
I’m not disappointed, well…a little hurt truth be known, but I simply lower expectation and it becomes more palatable next time. The thing is; I don’t want to be that person. Giving up belief is something which never interested me; even in my very darkest hour. The moment when we do so; something dies inside of us and that seems decidedly sad to me. One of the things I adore about all of you is that my affectionate graft is always appreciated. You’re so thankful, your words designed to build me up like the buttercup that I am. My Twitter feed is an insatiable beast nowadays, moving at breakneck pace, but I love that. If I Retweet or Favourite something you say, that’s as good as a hug as I work currently twenty hour days and still struggle to keep on top of my whirlwind feed.
Your appreciation of my craft means the world to me; truly it does. It keeps me coming back stronger like untreated head-lice, but without the itching sensation and fungal shampoo. One dearest sister was left totally stunned last night when I listed her an inspiration. She is and, moreover, you all are. Every mass mail-out is a love letter to you all and recognition of your inspirational capacities.I feel alone currently even when I am surrounded by people. It has become customary for me to be misinterpreted by those who profess to know me best of all but I know that this storm will pass. However, when it comes to the Grueheads, I never once feel alone or beaten, only uplifted and worthwhile. So when I close out an essay like this I need only do so with four remarkably simple words. I love you all.