The Only Way Out of Hell is Gratitude

I have tried in my own ways to be free. But one cannot be totally free. I think I am at my best when tethered to something concrete - like responsibility, for instance. Artists sometimes get this wrong. Many think "to be free is to have no responsibilities", but it just isn’t so. It is those things which you are compelled to do that set you free. Obligations give your life meaning.

Well, I could have sold more paintings. I wish I had traded some of them for cash. I could have used the cash at times - and everybody else was selling work -  in galleries, having shows, and getting reviews! Publishing poems! Books! Garnering attention! Oh, attention, where do I sign?

To be an artist may be many things - but surely, one thing it certainly means is to be subjected to heartbreak, rejection, poverty, envy - all the emotions and states of mind that will rightly put you in the dark - a hell of your own making. To be an artist or a writer, is, in some ways, to be dysfunctional. Very rarely will you make a living doing it. Very rarely does anything "good" happen. And what is the antidote to hell?

The only way out of hell is gratitude. Take a look around you - things could be better, yes, but they could also be a whole lot worse. There is a maxim that puts this into some perspective - "You don't really have problems until you have health problems". Perhaps this statement overstates this point- but for many purposes, this statement does have value. For it puts into perspective all the things that can be overcome, the things that are, for better or for worse, in your control.

Of all the people I know that are subject to cynicism, pessimism, and all things negative, the artist comes to mind, more than any other type. There is no great tool form fighting rejection to being invisible. Your art is as “good” as theirs - why not you? Where is your solo exhibition? Where is the critical review you ask?

For example, for years a mover and shaker of the art world in Los Angeles would promise - promise to come to visit my studio. I lived down the street. She would take my name and e-mail every time. She would tell me the possible dates, that someone would get back to me. She seemed kind. This went on for years. She never came. This happened dozens and dozens of times with dozens of people - everybody made promises, but nobody followed through. Years later, I would be packing up all my work, more paintings than you'd ever seen. I would leave Los Angeles and I wouldn't tell a single soul goodbye. Los Angeles would be losing one hell of an artist, I thought - Los Angeles would be glad it had me around someday! - cried the little dust speck, pitifully.

Well, I never even got close.
But my mind, heart, and disposition were all filled with rage.
But what did I expect? I was unhealthy, I was broke, and I was in a hellish city! A deplorable place that was built on superficiality.

Imagine if I had become successful there! But now, today, I think of it all as some rotten game I was destined to lose - and for that I am grateful. Who wants to be a winner in a game that is crooked at its core?

By all means, I am still a young man. Mathematically young. But I have seen the bottom of the barrel, and I don't like how it looks down there - it is dark, lonesome, cold. But without this isolation, this desperation, there are parts of myself that would go unknown to me. I wouldn't change a thing about Los Angeles if I could! I wouldn't change a thing about my time there. Every world deserves at least one rotten city. Los Angeles deserves it.

In all the grand shuffle of this world, in all its violence, decay, and misery, it is easy to become rotten inside. Bitter, resentful, evil. Look out for those who say "they hate people" - they just may mean it. In fact, hatred is rather easy.

Hatred creeps up into the heart - just like addiction, it creeps up slowly, not all at once. Years of this may go by unknown. Life doesn't turn out the way you want it. And isn't that true of being an adult? Isn't that true while becoming oneself? By the time "you" have become yourself, you are already sullied, already a few mistakes in. Your love life is dirtied by false starts, there is no high school sweetheart romance in life. Perhaps he screwed around on you in Chicago. Perhaps she did sleep with her ex when she met up with him for coffee…

The sky may be falling, but then so too -  it is falling on everybody else. Gratitude is not a big word for big things. You can be grateful for anything, big or small.

The key is to practice, practice. If you have ever tried your hand at home repair, you'll be grateful for how often things actually work - it is so easy to forget that. Your life is like an engine, one small slip of the shift, one loose nugget, one loose bolt, one less drop of oil than required, the gears grind, the engine shuts down - ah, things can fall apart, things will fall apart, so long as you don't fall apart.

The artist is always in some type of mess. If they are any good, anyhow. One cannot be tranquil, at ease, content, and still create. "You have to have a cob up your ass!" my father used to say. And I believe that to be true.

There are times in my life, mostly in my twenties, when I thought I was ripe for discovery. I had written and sung the songs, typed up the poetry, published the books, and painted the paintings. But I wasn't right in myself. Any success given to me I would have blown up, squandered, drank, huffed, and sniffed away. For that I am grateful. I would rather be no success at all than a flash in the pan. For an artist, the closest thing to success is no success at all.

My lack of success, as of now - well, for this I am grateful, too. When I look back at the times I was filled with scorn - where my reputation was at its most foul, where my friends would talk dirty behind my back, conspire and corrupt my opportunities, where old romances left me high and dry, I think, well, they were probably right on some level. Of course, they were. I was rather rotten.

But today, none of those things matter - they don't bother me much. I suppose, as trite as it is, those things make me who I am, and have led me to where I am now.

And now I live in the country. And I am reminded of a time when the perfect day was to take a stroll by myself to the farmers market in the Tenderloin of San Francisco. I loved the people there. The bright colors of the produce and the smell of fresh herbs was my anti-depressant. I thought I would love to do this with someone! I would love to be in love, and head to a farmers market with a lady, a lover. And wouldn't ya know it! Today is one of those days. For it is a Sunday, and me and my wife, Yasmin Vereen, are heading out the door now. Go figure. And so it is true, it all makes sense. It all adds up.

And instead of my rotten ways, I have tried to practice gratitude. Still, I am an artist, still, I can wake up rotten. But I do try to fight against it. You're on the road now, you're on the journey, it can be hell, but nothing can stop you from looking up at the sky and smiling. If you are in a type of hell- keep going. The only way out of hell is gratitude.

JSV
2023