People with serious money are a strange species altogether. If you do not come from old, new or dodgy money, you are viewed with suspicion. It helps if you are either very pretty or stupidly talented and even then you are expendable.
Tribes, I float in and out of many of them. Mostly, I observe from the trenches, like a journalist, notebook in hand. Is this human nature, I wonder, at its pinnacle? When you are in possession of every possible thing, when what you desire is a thought away and within reach? Is this all there is? A fellow artist during the residency program in the desert asked me one question and it stopped me dead in my tracks.
When will the more you ask for be enough?
Life….is fucking weird. Intriguing, surprising. The minute I leave one tribe and am about to step into another all I desire is silence and family. The sea, my tree I sit under, a visit with Gilda, seeing my Mother’s eyes light up when I cook for her. And time with Roeland my book dealer who has books lined up for me to consume voraciously! The highlight of this year has been the two new friends I made, who I call my Two Wives, both artists and entirely crazy!
I feel grounded finally. Matt cooked a great meal, I heard him play guitar which I find deeply reassuring as I sit on the couch and catch up on emails or work on proposals. Even speaking to the Scottsman once a week makes me feel less strange as I move from one place to the next. He enjoys my mad life, he says. I like that he makes me laugh. I have barely landed and already my social calendar is full. Wonderful friends to meet, places to go before I head home for 2 weeks. Then I am off to one city. Home for 2 weeks and off to another city. Friends. Music. New people….and seriously hot men or really good ones. This is my life.
But…if I were alone right now…I would go outside and sing jazz standards for at least an hour. Elongate the notes to the point of exhaustion. Or allow my voice to soar and swing as the lyrics dance and vibrate in my vocal chords. I would sing away my lingering sadness, my ‘what the fuckness’, the faces and voices I picked up along the way or a bit of my past I slipped into as I tried to…move from one place to the next. I would sing sad and mournful American blues and jazz standards. The ones my father use to hum very badly.
I need to sing and while doing so belt, whisper, blues and cry….where no one I care for can hear me. If only to attempt to answer the question posed to me. When will the more I ask for be enough? This…before I step into another tribe of people