I don’t hate the word epiphany, but I definitely don’t like it either. In fact, I don’t hate anything. I dread the possibility of ever experiencing an action or an event which is so heinous that I would respond with such a brutal level of hostility. That just sounds like a generally terrible time.
Epiphany though. Now that bastard word has a lot to answer for. It seems to be the calling card of every life changing revelation, and for all the poor suckers that haven’t quite ascended to such illustrious heights then it’s really just a constant reminder of how far we still have to climb.
Well bollocks to that. I’m not sure how you’re meant to announce an epiphany. I don’t think its Facebook status-worthy, so maybe I’ll settle for a Blog post and a phone call to my ever suffering father. At some point after fifteen to twenty minutes of him trying to justify why he doesn’t want to renew his license, then I’ll rudely interrupt and declare that I’ve cracked the case. I know why I want to write. I’ve seen the light at the end of the tunnel and I think the tunnel has just the sort of gradient for me to start a ball rolling in the right direction.
I’m stoaked and I’m scared shitless, that much goes without saying really. I also happen to be incredibly tired and bemused by my own stupid habit of swanning around waiting for destiny to boot in my bedroom door and spread eagle herself on my unmade bed. Just for reference sake, I don’t know anybody called destiny. What sort of nitwit would call a child destiny anyway?
I can ramble with a verve and unbridled passion, across almost any form of communicative medium. In the interest of keeping a long story less-long then I’ll start cutting the crap. This weekend I had the pleasure of attending my second wedding where I was once again blessed with best-man duties. I use “duties” in the most tentative sense, as I did sweet bugger all aside from trick the groomsmen party into wearing tie-dyed singlet’s for an entire weekend and monologue a long list of heartfelt sentiments cleverly hidden behind a guise of self-depreciating humour come speech time.
Post-speech, as I stumbled off stage to finally neck an overdue bottle of warm Speights, I was bombarded by a series of startling realisations. First up, I noticed one of the other groomsmen had just polished off my beer so I was being marooned with nothing but a jar of cheap red wine. Secondly, my keen Maori vision managed to zero-in on a platter of fresh chocolate brownies being delivered to the rear of the dessert table. Finally, with the sweaty arms of an approving groom wrapped around me, I grudgingly admitted to myself that I’m an artist, through and through.
These were the three wise men who heralded the birth of my epiphany. For an artist, I have always been shockingly ungrateful towards my craft. I barely practice my guitar, I only ever sing late at night when I am guaranteed to piss off my flatmates and if through some miracle I actually manage to overcome my irrational fear of writing then I will inevitably leave it until the last minute before I struggle to meet any imposing deadlines.
This winds up being a disservice to both myself and the art forms. I’m being hamstrung by a concerted duo of laziness and humility. Well no longer. That gut churning showcase of doubt and self-modesty has made me clasp my last straw. If I can dredge my inner reserves for the minerals needed to boogie or rant in front of a drunken crowd, then damn it all to hell, I can surely stumble the first few steps down the garden path towards literary infamy.
You read it here first.
