Portrait of a Migraineur Today was a migraine day so I spent it trying to sleep as much as possible while waiting for the meds to work. Not a whole lot experienced today. It the cracking open of my head. It's weeping it's weeping. Plasma and pain; lightning in the folds. I struggle with art in that I feel like I have no real experience to art about. I have internalized some amount of "art is pain" and angst sort of cultural bs that makes it harder to be an artist. Makes me less wanting to try. Who cares about yet more opinions coming from a middle aged white guy? And that my favorite artists was a black man from New York that struggled every day? Inner demons. Outer demons. Vice. Poverty. That's not been mine and it feels realer than what I have experienced. What relevance does having a migraine in a house in Wisconsin have. What relevance does that pain have when I can just call into work and start over tomorrow. Most can't just not and then start again. What am I doing here the whole excruciating thing