To Willing Conflators Of Spalding Gray And Jeremy Todd (forty ninth letter)

Dear Folks,
I think I want to live in a Not Sent Letter.  I need to talk to myself again.  I’ll go looking for a story.  I’ll reveal it to myself.  And I have to have something to support me other than despair — which is what takes me over when I’m not making art.
I’m taking the time here to be my own therapist.  My fear is that I will get so good at artifice that I will no longer lead an authentic life.  I’M NOT AN ARTIST.  I’M A PUBLIC NEUROTIC.
I can no longer read my Not Sent Letters, make Not Sent Digital Shorts or organize Not Sent Letters & Guests events.  I smoke cigarettes and review the project website content and it breaks down in front of me.  Does not hold together, does not make sense.  Reads like some AA victim report.  Some stupid confession.  All literal and not poetic.  The fantasy that I am an informed and capable artist is broken and I sit there trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.
But no matter how low I get I still manage to find some joy by REFLECTING on it.  I’ve become so adept at considering my own miserableness (in order to save myself from it).  I just called someone from the airport and performed the ultimate depression – head cold, how did I get involved in this life?, etc…  But after I left that little bomb on the answering machine I felt a sudden change — of what?  What was the feeling?  It was a devilish glimmer, a projection, perhaps, into the future.
I’m having a real bad, shaky day.  I’ve found it almost impossible to be alone.  So I walk around and around, and on my way to the thrift store, groaning all the way, I run into a more extreme version of myself — the man is shouting at everyone.  Far gone — and for a while it shuts me up.
I often lose track.  I momentarily forget what I began to realize a long time ago.  I used to act as though the world was ending — and this was helping lead to its destruction.  The only positive act would be to leave a record.  I’d leave a chronicle of feelings, acts, reflections, something outside of me, something that might be useful in the unexpected future.