I had a distant friend die today. He was a brilliant artist--funny, smoked American Spirits compulsively to deal with his overwhelming thoughts (that I imagine he loved just as much as he hated) and cool. His name was Jeremy. He was a great debater; we would have reality reforming discussions about the nature of truth and identity, and then casually poke fun at the local coffee shop tarot card reader, Myles. I remember one day Jeremy retired his shirts for plain white tees with his personal artwork on them-- "I don't want anyone else's insignia on me." I was inspired, Neither did I. Fuck wearing someone else's clothes.
Jeremy was full of mental angst. I recognized and empathized with this because I was too, especially during my early twenties when I knew him the best. He hinted at suffering from various mental disorders, but when I was around him he was always just a kind and brilliant soul, our collective craziness seemed to complement each of the others'. I often pictured him as a symphony conductor that never self-realized--in a tux, directing a group of musical talents that demanded all his attention with a white baton. And now, my refreshing balance of cynical and light-hearted friend has moved on. I don't dare say "he's in God's hands now," or he's "in a better place," because that's the exact type of horse shit he would have rolled his eyes at-- I will say he's where he is; nothing stops going to my knowledge or wisdom. For all I know he could be reincarnated as a tree, or willingly stay a cosmic anomaly instead of re-entering conscious life. It seems like he could use a little break from this place and all its overwhelming thoughts.
I've always argued that great art isn't necessarily born from pain. I argue this because when I was younger I was just as smart and creative as I am now, and even more artistic--but not in pain. Now I find myself in a type of relapsing-remitting pain. The kind that makes me lie in bed and squirm occasionally, not intensely, always a slow, barely escapable pain. If I can convince myself to get out of the apartment, I know I could feel a little better and get some great things done, but more often than not, I end up wasting the day away because I ate something that mysteriously hurts my stomach. Thinking about Jeremy makes me feel like I'm in a realistic middle ground of pain for this life. He was noticeably in more pain than I was, and much like me, he pushed a lot of it out through art. It makes me wonder if my pain was worse, how many more days I would miss out on. Or, if his was less, how many more days he would have enjoyed.
Great Art doesn't require pain, but great pain does require Great Art. I'll have to remember to suck it up, get out and write, draw, act or creatively exercise my pain so I don't miss out on those days. Anyways, Jeremy I'll miss you, and I hope to run into you again. Love to your family and all the friends/second family at 1521 East Boulevard.
