I like the metaphor inherent. I feel surrounded by a world that is immersed in repetitive and mundane tasks. And even in art apparently the truth of the mundane is present. My ex-wife used to say that all work was the same. I feel this truth knocks on the door of my hopes and dreams and establishes a pointlessness to my artwork even pointing to those inconsistencies. I paint the walls of my condo. I play improv music that seems to grow similar and predictable with each note. I have a book of photographs that represents how I see the world. I write books that too seem to reflect the world back. Art imitates art apparently. And what’s the point of that? I feel, as a truth teller that I am no longer relevant. The truth, the kind in fiction, does it have a point, where the President has no grasp of reality, where the practice of pathological lying leads to not even knowing what’s true from what’s false? I have felt like everything has been spun to the point that we are now in a different world altogether, the things I valued as a child and still do are being disappeared. I valued T.S. Eliot’s poems, The New Yorker, Granta, the art in museums, Magnum photographers. It seems that what I have to do so that I can enjoy these things is redundant and basic. I can’t breathe. I can’t swallow. I cannot see the future anymore because I am tired and irrelevant. What I have fought for all these years is gone. I am on the brink of the ridiculous, myself dancing alone, writing the book no one will read, painting the painting no one will see, playing music that won’t be heard but laughed at because I am not Mozart nor Bach. Yesterday, the HR Director and the person roughly his equal came to the hospital to see me. I had been at work and it felt like my cardiac sphincter was herniating. I couldn’t swallow and it wouldn’t go away. With my history of a heart attack, I wasn’t sure what was happening. I could hear gurgling inside my chest. No, the world of work has become paranormal, strange, and unpredictable. I dreamt I was doing dishes in a hotel. But, I am an artist. I am talented or so I tell myself.