questions

I don't know if it's just me, but having a baby makes me feel empty all the time - drained so far as to be bereft of MEness. There is just always so much to do these days, with work at the Olive Garden, shoveling horse turds for the landlords, fixing up vehicles to sell, and doing the multifarious deeds that need to get did before we can do the departure deed. All of this has left me with very little spare time, and lacking in the ability to gather the critical mass of energy necessary to do anything really creative. I haven't written, drawn, or painted in four months. I am, as they say, pooched.

This sensation is undoubtedly more pronounced for Anya, who does not have the benefit of experiencing the small day-to-day accomplishments that indicate we are getting closer to our goal, in two weeks, of leaving behind this province and this country to join once again our warmongering paisanos to the south.

Today and yesterday we have been visiting with family in Oregon, a trip made possible by the generosity of Anya's biological father, who has returned to his hometown for his first visit in eighteen years. This stopgap in this month of hectomania has been a pleasant succession of family chucklefests and facefeasts, but has also given my body the chance to clue into the fact that it has been overworked and underpaid for around four months. Exhaustion sets in, combines with other stuff, and makes me wonder how I'm going to make it across America in a Vanagon with a wife, son, cat, dog and stuff without making this fatigue even worse.

Through it all, I have tended to choose to rejoice, to be grateful for all the goodness in my life. I have been blessed up, brimmed over, and cetera. Still, I think I really ought to pay a little more attention to my body, to the "DETOUR" signposts that in retrospect I can see it has been erecting in the middle of my path.

The other day I was talking to one of my old art teachers about life after I moved, and I caught myself saying, "well, if I ever paint again..." This is a bit perturbing, and has me revisiting the same old "am I really an artist?" ground, wondering if I was really meant to do this, if I'd give it up so lightly. I told a friend recently that having a son has made me feel OK about not making art - about possibly not making art ever again. Is this OK? Is my overinflated ego shriveling, leaving a better, healthier, humbler me? Have I somehow lost my unhealthy identification of action, creation and production with self-worth? Am I now more able to just BE?

I wonder. As in, I WONDER. Because underneath it all, I have this nagging question plucking away at the too-taught strings of my psyche: "is this gonna help me make better art?" and even further down, "will that help me break out into the big-time?" I don't know. Maybe not having time to think is good for me - keeps me away from existential ponderation and onto the practice of participating with the hoi polloi.

Lots of questions.