The Writing Machine
Stories by Christian Cloud Abraham
Stealing Wings from an Angel: Excerpt Page 4
Money money money, how much more do we have to hear about money? Every fucking artist and Joe Blow in the Dunkin Donuts will whine and moan about the atrocity of money. I hate money so vehemently because I want it so badly and on top of it all, I am cursed with the locomotive desire to constantly create or go mad from stockpiling all my loony thoughts on a one-way train traveling in nauseating circles until I find a place to unload. I have more than enough intelligence to succeed in a typical high-dollar career position, but instead the cells that infest my soul are those of a writer, a photographer, a musician, an artist, so I will be eternally broke and jealous of those who have the illustrious simplicity to live quite content in their money belts. How can I not want money when I feel my stomach devouring itself, growling, calling out for the pot pie walls and potato furniture that make up the guest house I call home and I know that if I don’t grub up some money soon I’ll have to eat my own leg to stop myself from dying of starvation. Starvation is swell and to be expected if one lives as a real artist is supposed to, always without, too good for a job, roaming the streets thinking hungry thoughts, whining about this cause and that philosophy all goddamn day long, so concerned about their art that they teeter on the edge of a roof looking down debating whether to jump or not, in conflict with the world and thinking that their isolation and suffering is saying to the world with all sincerity, “I am an artist and I suffer. I suffer because I don’t care at all what the world thinks so I live like this, free, and suffering for this freedom.” I can’t help but to laugh at these hitchhikers and vagabonds who cannot hold my respect any longer because I am of a new breed of artists and I suffer. I am of a new breed of artists who work, who go to school and who love money, but hate the ass-kissing that comes with it so must grow stronger and stronger each day in their belief in their art as each day is a temptation to give in to the system that surrounds them, that threatens their art with complacency, that threatens with management positions and career choices. But me, I have a real job in the ritz of Phoenix and I starve as an artist does but I am not even trying to starve, I am not even trying to suffer, I am not even trying to live like an artist of lore so what the fuck is up? I am just piss poor broke all the time and life is too expensive and it sucks when my stomach growls and I can’t even go out for a beer and maybe a quick fuck without risking starvation and possibly a slow death (The V is all around us).
About Stealing Wings from an Angel
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© 2007 Christian Cloud Abraham
Posted on September 26, 2007 in
Emotion: Anger, Type: Creative Nonfiction