It’s a space within consumption and production. Something I crave constantly yet can’t achieve. It’s fear, expectations, lust, and time that ruin my life time and time again. It’s agonizing and embarrassing to sit so firmly in the cuck chair yet I find myself on top of that pole in Coney Island over and over again. Enabling creativity is not creatively satisfying, and it’s frankly pathetic to think I could ever feel fulfilled creating someone else’s art. Women weren’t meant to birth someone else’s baby. I need to change.
Musing is both more passive and more instrumental than creating. I’ve been a muse a lot in my life. How does Amber Rose feel right now? I doubt proud. I’m proud of you and me, but I’m not proud to be your muse. To give you the radical honesty I crave, I feel shame to be your muse and it’s shame I constructed, perfected, and welcome. I feel used. Each time I let you take me, I am jealous of the time you take and the art you make and the orgasm radiating through you while I simply watch. Is that why I can’t get it done? How important are they really?
A chilly, organized night turns oddly cold while driving down the Palisades Interstate Parkway (PIP from here on). It’s just darkness cascading into darkness. Deer never appear and the sun never rises, but it feels like both are swirling and inevitable. Something is around every bend. I feel that. Yet as I glance frantically between road and rear view mirror hoping for something, nothing appears. I never accept it, but it’s true. I’m going to go home, go to bed, go to work, and that’s it.
Are you allowed to feel used when you’re compensated? He warns you over and over and over again, so are you allowed to feel hurt? Actually, who the fuck cares if I’m allowed? Rules are made up until they aren’t and you can’t blame your failures on speeding tickets or school buses. If you fail, you failed. If you followed the rules, the rules exist. If you don’t create, you’re not an artist.
I’ve never made my own art in Coney Island. Never. And I’ve made a lot of art in Coney Island. I’ve made promises there. I’ve told lies, climbed poles, danced naked, chased the birds, and yet I’ve never made my own art in Coney Island. Or Fire Island. Or on the island of Manhattan. Ok, that last one was a lie, but it’s been quite a while and the ratio is still piss-poor. I say all this yet I keep musing. Even today, when I’ve made my life hard and satisfying, my world rough and crunchy, my tits two sizes bigger, and my mind beautiful, I lay in bed after dinner while my dreams lay across the room. I exhaust myself for you, yet rest for me. The gentle fall of the rain relaxes me. I stand in front of the camera and just smile. I used to be afraid at that and now it’s of that. Cut the shit my boy. What do you want to achieve?
