Hotter and windier

 I took my "weekend" by reading "Woman In The Mists" by Farley Mowat, about Dian Fossey. It was a freebee from one of the little free libraries and I was happy to find it, being a big Farley Mowat fan. Long before I'd learned to pay attention to authors, I'd read and read-read Owls In The Family as a kid, and Never Cry Wolf as a teen/young adult. 

It was a good book, which I read half of last night and the other half of today, staying in bed. The wind's howling out there and on the radio they said it's going to get even hotter, even into triple digits, and the wind not letting up. Standard End Times weather. 

Aside from reading the book, I think I've finally figured something out to my satisfaction. Being effectively blind or close to it when I was very little, music would have been a natural for me. But my parents, both frustrated artists, and especially my mom, had different plans. I had a childhood of constantly having drawing and painting materials put into my hands, the constant drumbeat that I'm the "artist", a constant pushing toward this career. 

And it became pretty evident that my place was to become a "great artist" somehow and for my mom and her parasite boyfriend to live off of this somehow. Preferably the whole family to. My father had pretty much the same idea; he was just a little bit more subtle about it. 

And I've tried to push *myself* from high school age on. This is what I "should" do; this is what I "ought" to do, I need to make use of my "talent". 

Firstly, I was not more talented than the average kid and maybe even less. Certainly less than a lot of kids as I've seen a lot of pretty impressive little-kid art over the years. I've had more exposure, sure, and I've had more experience messing around with various techniques and materials, but certainly not any more talent than the average person. 

I'm not sure one can be called "better", but it doesn't matter how good an illustrator or political cartoonist you are, your pictures will only hold a very fleeting interest and for example, hardly anyone remembers Bill Mauldin, who was huge during WWII, now. And I don't care how great a drawing by Mauldin, or Leonardo, or Rembrandt, is, it'll never comfort you when you've got absolutely nothing the way a song will. 

So I think I've made the right choice, and it's not just a matter of sheer practicality; that a white or white-passing person can get in some real trouble "peddling" things on the street back home, but if they play music that's fine because nothing physical is changing hands.