I wake up, make coffee before my phone interview, take the interview, which goes terribly; go back to bed, try, unsuccessfully to fall asleep (because I’ve already had so much caffeine). I wasn’t prepared; I feel ashamed — thought I could wing it, when I couldn’t. I hate the smugness of interviewers, of institutions; of everyone who assumes the right to judge me, label me. Yet I’m helpless. I’m worried about money, about needing to rely on my parents. I just lay on my back and stare at the ceiling. I regret not becoming a careerist of some kind, any kind — because wouldn’t that be easier than being what I am?
There is no place for the artist, no social category which acknowledges an artist’s existence. So the artist can only be a Quixote. And I am tired of being a Quixote. You remain a knight errant for too long, you can’t go back to being plain old Alonso Quixano. You get stuck.
