I always thought that the truly gifted among us, the artistic geniuses, must have a level of comfort most cannot imagine. A justification for what they did or didn’t do; felt or couldn’t feel. Sure getting that big bugger out of their mind and into the world might be a trial, might take a lot of pain, a lot of hooch, a lot of lost love. But then again, getting little buggers out of the mind takes a similar toll.
Would an artistic genius ever sweat the small stuff, even recognize the small stuff, even acknowledge rain if it dropped through the hole in the ceiling. It's like the scales of justice -- there's truth and beauty on one side, and the termite problem in the kitchen on the other.
And how nice to be rid of the endless apologies in life. Sorry I smashed your car, burnt the roast, lost the keys, broke your heart.
How nice to be able to say: Yes, I messed up, but I was working on the 5th Symphony.
“Writing is easy. All you do is sit at a typewriter and open a vein.” And for the genius, it’s blood that flows. What if you pop open a vein and all that comes out is a jello shooter or 7 up. Well, now you’ve made a mess for no reason, and you’ll probably scar. And you’ll still have to clean up. There is no saint that guards the mildly gifted.
If you’re a genius, I’ll bet you know it from the get-go. And all those razors and blood-lettings are so much the 9 to 5 of your life, with fewer coffee breaks and no dental. Tough luck.
At night, you get the promise of history to snuggle up like a warm puppy by your side.