There are two cliched observations about money that I never understood growing up poor:
- Having enough to survive is crucial, and enough to play is important. More? Not just irrelevant to happiness, but actively destructive, because…
- More money = more trouble. Tupak probably said it best as far as relationship woes, but beyond that, all those celebrities having absurd accounting problems? I get it now.
Fifteen years ago I took a vow that I would work only for integrity of the experience, not for material rewards, regardless of consequence. There were a few skint years (none of us care much for eggs, milk, or vegan mush after surviving on WIC and punk house hospitality) but overall the experiment was strangely lucrative.
Because I fundamentally do not care about getting rich, I have avoided all of the social traps associated with chasing money. Put me in any environment, be that an ‘important’ dinner or BBC live broadcast, and I will say exactly what I wish. I have nobody to impress, nothing to lose, nothing to gain.
Of course my purity is easy to sustain, since my job is random and theatrical. The audience expects the writer to misbehave, and I deliver, then make them cry. This does not pay vast sums, but it does pay (as my grandma would say) regular.
Avoiding the obvious and standard traps implied by matrimony and career but protecting the children and my own health required brutal, creative, and destructive effort. Observers might even say the emotional cost was too high – but I did it, and here I am.
How extraordinary and alarming; I ended up where I wanted to be all along. If you had asked me at age ten, this is the future I was dreaming about.
The only real penalty of autonomy? I am perpetually homesick, and there is no cure.
Today I’m making a feast while missing my mother, Marisa, Stella & Al, the forests and water.
