It’s been almost 30 years since I figured out — much to my surprise — that what I really wanted more than anything else vocationally was to be an artist. And I’ve spent most of the years since then explaining to myself over and over why this isn’t possible.
After enough reasonable explanation, I start getting numb to what I want. I forget what it feels like. I turn my attention elsewhere and tell myself that realistic people do other things. Maybe I can make filmmaking a hobby if I do really well for awhile at something I hate.
Doesn’t that make sense? I can make a few hundred thousand dollars a year as a real estate broker. How about that? Isn’t that more realistic? Sure. Why not. I’ll do that. It all makes so much sense. And it sounds so responsible.
And so I start burying what I know — every now and then, at least — that I want. Until somebody comes along and pokes a stick at something I try hard not to look at.
That’s what happened today.

Without hope for a better future, depression grabs us by the throat
Archived audio of my Alaska radio interview available for download
My father taught me not to trust; that’s been very tough to change
Memory Lane is seductive when
Honesty, wisdom and insight teach that we have to live with uncertainty
If you believe in these campaign fairy tales, welcome to Fantasy Island
Out of touch: Most politicians, media don’t understand ‘the real world’
No matter who you are or what you’ve done, time is your enemy
How would you see your body if nobody told you it was flawed?