The girl I live with is a dumpster-diver, and through her I've become one too. We've been friends for a while now, but I'm not sure exactly how long... eight years perhaps? She is tall and blond, a classic beauty with a tiny waist and old-fashioned ideas. She is from a wealthy family, and travels abroad at least once a year. She is a graduate student of chemistry, and a talented artist. She brings new definition to the term "eccentric". Everyone always said that we were a perfect match, and now we live together in a house that is growing slowly more and more full of things, insane things which we made or found or were gifted to us anonymously by friends passing by in the night.

Mostly, though, it's filling with things from dumpsters.

I know that over time people have begun thinking of us differently. We are building our future out of the things we bring home, a future made out of pieces of other people's pasts. Each dumpster contains an entire story; a bankrupt church with old choir robes, conference tables and a broken organ, or the former crack house with filthy clothes and unsalvageable, vomit-stained furniture. There are some dumpsters that you know, before climbing up and peeking over the edge, that you would need a hazmat suit to climb into.

Some dumpsters tell you, in fragments night after night, about the person whose life is being emptied box by box into it, for portage to the landfill. The mildewed makeshift endtable at first tells of poverty, but soon boxes of toiletries start to tell a story of thriftiness, of always being prepared for the future. An entire case of shampoo; four boxes of Irish Spring. Thousands of tampons. She was a hoarder, the former owner of what is now trash. We guess from her hats and the brightness of her costume jewelry that she was black, and from the beautiful coat with a fur collar that she was imposing in stature. There are no religious mementos... perhaps she was an atheist, or simply not a churchgoer. Perhaps those things were given away to family. In the dozens of romance novels, we find a name written in the front cover. These things come to live with us.

In the neighborhood, we unfold our story as we go out night after night and retrieve pieces of other stories, bring them home to hoard in our history. We can see ourselves growing old, doing this; we can see the overwhelmed look on the faces of the executors of our estate as they say "What are we going to do with all this junk? Should we just get a dumpster?" Those old ladies that lived in that house... the neighbors say they used to go out at night and scavenge through the trash. Their house is full of junk, of strange things rescued from the dump. They always seemed normal enough when you talked to them, but you could see them bringing things home all the time...

Tonight we're visiting the dumpster of a lonely old man who lived on 13th. He was really into Westerns, and his Chinese pornography collection is amazing.

This is the schtick:

"I'm a creative thwarted artist compromising my freedom for domesticity".

We all need to recognize that living our lives, normal lives that include basic amenities like, say, a comfortable home and the luxury of a partner, all requires sacrifice of something on some level, just as having freedom to pursue our artistic dreams fully would require sacrificing something else, like maybe having a partner and a comfortable home. It is a balancing act, for everyone all the time, and all of life requires compromise.

The stifled artist-angst thing is not something I have great patience for. For one thing, I consider it little more than a lame excuse; a cheap out from actually doing the work. If you're an artist, you can be an artist in a crappy apartment alone or you can be an artist in a comfortable home with a partner. Same artist. If you were alone in a crappy apartment, you would simply find another excuse for feeling like a thwarted artist; that blockage isn't coming from outside. That has always chapped my hide... the people who think they're being held back artistically by the comforts of domestic life. It's crap. All of it. And it's lazy, disingenuous crap at best. It may "feel" romantic to be a thwarted artist when you're in the throes of it, but in the end it's unproductive, creatively hypocritical bullshit that leaves you with no art and no fulfillment. It's the fucking Mentos of angst.

If you are a great person and a creative brain, an artist, and you think you are not fulfilling your creative potential, you need to look inside yourself for what's holding you up, not externalize it and project it on your relationship or your job or your life circumstances. Not on your home, your kids, or your partner. You need to recognize that you are not some fundamentally different creature; that others, too, have sacrificed and compromised and sometimes miss the single, free life of intellectual pursuit and hot 3-am makeout sessions and writing and being a star. Everyone does; every single person. Great artists have, and so have non-artists. But we all grow up and we all change the ways in which we pursue those things, and what sacrifice and compromise we make hopefully leads us to the growth of other things or other ways of expression that we wanted MORE.