the case for starvation

Opening your own business can do wonders for your perspective. It's effect on my financial perspective was fully expected. Doing so in the midst of a national recession, all the more so. Being prepared, mentally, is one thing. In practice it has effected me well beyond my wallet. I'm not talking about the obvious responsibilities and perks of being my own boss. That part is fine. Its great and its one of the main attractions to having embarked on this trip.
The shop I left behind was a busy shop. Well established after more than a decade of service, it was a popular and heavily patronized business. I made a lot of money there. It was the kind of atmosphere where I could pretty much name my price. Customers would sign up without a blink of hesitation. The issues I had were centered on management, not on the clients. It was an issue of work ethic, of differences in moral code and lack of compassion. Compassion for customers as well as employees. I spent several years there. Many more years than I would have had there not been as much money involved. I made a deliberate and conscious compromise. I stopped painting, and the years passed. I bought lots of neat stuff.
This type of thing effects a man. It is impossible not to take that kind of thing for granted to some extent. I did the best I could to not do so, and I honestly think I did pretty well, considering. Having said that: it still seeps into you. It can't be stopped. Any artist can attest to it: success and money can and does compromise your passion. Some might say it can kill it. There's a time when I'd have argued about that. Especially when my pockets were the fattest.
Today I am broke. This is no simple figure of speech. As the great old country song puts it: I'm busted. I do a handful of tattoos a week. The bills pile up, and get paid on a priority basis. I eat lots of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I sold my 4x4 truck for a small, gas efficient 4 cylinder. I've given much of my superfluous stuff away, and have sold most of my furniture on Craiglist for mortgage money. I buy beer in cans and drink my cocktails at home. I don't eat out much any more.
I am also drawing and painting more than I ever have in my life. I make weekly trips to art supply stores and pay for watercolor paper by the individual sheet, and I pay for it with dollar bills. I paint nearly every day. My tattooing has never been more deliberate and refined. I put every grain of effort and passion into every tiny butterfly or kanji tattoo I get. I love tattooing for the first time in years. I love painting again. I just might feel more alive than I ever have.

"it's one of my faults that I can't quell my past" -aimee mann-fourth of july

About a year and a half ago I began throwing things away. For most of my life I've had a hard time separating myself from objects. I develop sentimental attachments to things. From t-shirts to ticket stubs, letters received in the mail, notes written on small bits of paper by friends or lovers I've not seen in decades. Everything has gone into a box at some point. When the box is full it gets taped up and shoved into a closet or onto a shelf. The worst part of this habit manifests itself whenever I move into a new location. Any well intentioned friend who volunteers to help is left unwittingly carrying hundreds of pounds of history. Up and down stairs. Onto moving trucks. Into basements and attics. Some of these boxes will go ten or more years remaining unopened. Their content largely unknown even to me.
My city-issued plastic garbage can is about two and a half times larger than the traditional steel garbage can that most of us grew up with. In the last year I have filled it fifteen to twenty times. Over-flowing. What has not been deemed useless has been donated to goodwill. I've filled the back of my pickup truck six to eight times with donations. Large black garbage bags filled with t-shirts, coats, shoes and pants. Boxes filled with stereo components, kitchen appliances, books, statues and trinkets. There has been furniture. Magazine collections. Dishware. Some of these boxes had contents I'd not opened to sunlight in more than fifteen years.
The first few boxes were the most painful. Nearly each item revealed its significance to me immediately, just as I'd intended it to do. The person who gave it to me. The place I lived. The job I had. The smells of my environment. The faces of those around me. Just as I'd hoped each item would. Often their magic more potent than I had even imagined.
Separating myself from each item became a little easier each time it left my hand. Now the ritual itself has become joyful. I actually anticipate each session. This process, though it sounds massively productive already, is not yet finished. I've carried the full and literal weight of my history for nearly my entire life. There are many more boxes. There is much yet to reveal, and much yet to be loosened from my desperate grasp.