In the waves of trivia, in which I swim, came the factoid: December, despite the myth, is not the highest for suicide; May is. May comes after a hard sad winter but May's spring brings no relief. Believing in the future is always a risky proposition, when the present doesn't work well. I live in paradise, so, by default, I am an authority on sadness... something to do with comparative perspectives.
Today I see I have these romantic ties to my tools as a symbol of prowess, more than any massive hunger for the creative process. I want the cool factor of being seen as powerful, by operating top-of-the-line cool stuff, though I am not as willing to do the legwork of mastership of these tools.
I suppose mine is a common infliction. A consumer society soldier of conspicuous consumption. Convenience and pragmatic motivation (sugar, salt, and sex) seems more relevant for me to make things. Simple and expedient means more for getting me to do something, than the actual cool state-of-the-arts technology I covet. I like stuff now more than making stuff, objects over action... a toy junkie. But to get the job done, simple and in tune with some motivation is best for me.
I discuss this here after watching myself procrastinate. Procrastinate learning even the simplest of technology, all the while fantasizing ambitious complex projects.
The advent of spring means summer to me, after a hard muggy initiation, total un-productivity. Like life away from a big city, life without a product lacks a rationalization for existence. A city without an art process, a tool without mastership, a spring without vision reaching toward manifestation, are formula for depression.
Process justifies the tool. Depression is the recognition of factors without motivation for appropriate action. A feeling, a feeling that the vision really is meaningless, before giving the action a chance to wash all that self-doubt away, is a May depression and could evolve into a June suicide.
Though these theories might apply to an exaggerated version of reality, they still do not explain my wife's suicide in June 2000, nor why I circle the fire of art creation at such a distance. Am I a moth with a greater destiny than consummation in flames or simply a coward afraid of standing naked in my ordinariness as every man. Was this what Reiko tried to face, Her human ordinariness?
Thankfully I already live in paradise, and all this speculative dancing does not diminish the fact. Truth will triumph by the inevitability of 'what happens will happen' with or without us. Though, some of us will be missed deeply for a very long time. So all that remains is, what do I plan to do with my present symptoms: High Blood Pressure, lock jaw tension, and a perpetual resistance to radical but necessary change.