My fundraiser met half its goal. So I got the land. But not any walls or a way to get there. Another payment on the land is coming up. I was hoping I would be there by now with a seasonal job. Everyone there is hiring right now. But I am not there.

If I don’t get walls, my mother and I may have to separate. Because she will need to go to live with one of her other daughters, while I hitch down there, live in a tent, bang nails into wood, and cry because I do not know what I’m doing, and need time in a trailer to learn.

No one has seen Process. I sent it to a paper that gave me a great review in the past. They saw it. They didn’t review it.

I almost wish I could say it’s because it’s bad. But I know there is enough good in it, that it would be worth pointing to, for a paper in a small town. Either they didn’t get it, or they did get it, and will not promote a show that encourages Americans to declare their independence and decide their lives for themselves.

I’m at a point where I’m wondering if maybe I’m selling something people no longer want. You know. Democracy. Art.

This fundraiser has dragged on for months, and only 4 people contributed. One person contributed the bulk.

I don’t know what will happen to my cats.

I truly believe what is happening here at SmutMag is special. And important. To the point where I cannot stop. Perhaps it will only be important to people after I’m dead –when I can pass the land to some other artist. Or when fascism has taken hold hard and there is someone who wonders if they are alone in dreaming of freedom. Maybe what I do is not for you, but for somebody in the future.

I’m sad. And honestly, angry. Because, quite frankly, keeping me off the street would be easy and fun –there are prizes. There is the opportunity to advertise that you helped someone. The amount is small. The personal cost very light, at the end of the day, and the gain far outweighs the cost.

It makes it obvious to me, that no one is going to step up to help anyone else. If you are scared now, you will be more scared when how you help people has to be a total secret. When it only costs and the risk is great. But we’re gonna need people to do that, too.

Why don’t you get a job?

Because I’ve applied to all of them here. There are none. But there are some where I’m moving.

Why is this my responsibility?

Because all systems are corrupted and everything is up to us.

What do you bring to the table?

Motherfucker, all of it. Everything that can be brought to a table has been brought by me.

Why don’t you sell your stuff?

It’s done been sold. I don’t have a lot of sellable stuff. Also, SmutBag. Also Queen of Swords. No one is buying.

Why don’t you go out and promote?.

Zines. Street performance. Posters. Blogging. Video. Podcast. Emails. These things bring traffic to the site and a vow to buy later. That vow has never materialized.

I’m in your hands people. But I can’t and won’t take accusations of not having done the work. Of not bringing anything to the table. Goddamnit, I have been spreading $200 over this whole month to live on. I’m not even smoking weed!

My poor mother is a trooper who won’t leave my side even when I insist that she go be where things are more stable so I can build this. But she is scared to death in either direction. And it’s killing me. It is fucking killing me to have to assure her of things I cannot really assure her of.  Not anymore. I do not know what people want. But I know it’s apparently not me.

Within twenty days we have to LEAVE. Not be getting ready to leave–I mean I needed to be gone LAST MONTH.

Art never has you over a barrel. Only propaganda does. So it is always something you can support “later.”

That’s why artists beg. It is not that we don’t have a product that you want and need–that is of value. It’s that you will not die today if you don’t get it. The death of art is a slow death–its fascism. And when it’s killing you, it is the deprivation of art that gets you. The inability to see.

I don’t want to quit–and don’t really think I can. But I can and do break. So I am begging you: please do not let me break.

And for the love of all that is good, please do not consider the corporate demands on your checkbook to be a need and the offerings of your fellow man to be a want.

The corporations simply have us all over a barrel. We are more important. We are what we need. We are flawed and have weird bits and cost more and are WORTH IT.

I need walls and a ride. 

Please do no let me break.

Maybe a part of you hates me for begging. A part of me hates you for making me beg.

But let’s love each other anyway. Even when we hate each other. And maybe we’ll actually have a chance of beating fascism.

I do love you. It’s all for you. So please.

Get your bones.