The inevitability of events, change, endings, and whatever follows. I sit in what a week ago was my house, now mostly construction rubble. The interior walls have been cut, the outside walls, too. I sit among the piles of debris. Once lovely, now broken. Much is exposed that needs work, too. My deck is in shreds, the once lush yard dug up, the granite drive spread here and there. Money. I need money, and I think of all that I have not put away, money I've spent "investing in the present," as they say. I think I am fearful and will be a remorseful coward in the end.
Things go wrong.
They have been surveying the property where my studio sits I've been told. The axe will come soon. I am sad and wonder where I will move all my things. The True Artist in the studio behind my own is looking for a new space. He keeps me informed. He tells me about warehouse spaces, mostly not air conditioned, and what the price is per square foot. He knows how much we pay. Everything is more. I am flattered that he wants me to share a space with him, but I don't know if I can or will. He is looking further and further from town, for anything close to us will soon be sold and developed, too. I don't know if I want to drive half an hour to get to my studio.
I realize now how fortunate I have been. For years, I have had a studio in a beautiful part of town. Not so many people can say that. I rejoice in that.
And I wonder what next? I can't figure it out as I sit in the piles of rubble. All I can do is try to sleep and not be scared by nocturnal dread. I wake to visions of all the things I have done wrong in life and realize there are more things than I thought. Existential judgement. In the end, I wonder, have I lived an authentic life?
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