Hard to Explain (or) Do My Parents Still Think I'm Crazy?

Pazazul Great & Terrible

Watching the clip above after recording it, I had a sort of epiphany concerning one of the questions I used to ask myself alot as a teenager: "Do my parents think I'm crazy?"  then, the truth is that they probably found me incredibly annoying more than anything else, but watching myself adlib with a puppet for an online audience rekindled the curiousity.

Occasionally, I try to explain to my family what it is that I spend all my time doing.  I spent a couple of years avoiding this, because all it amounted to was an occasional "Uh, so hows....painting?" around the holidays when I'd see them.  Now, I take a sort of masochistic joy in trying my best to explain to my mother "This weekend I have a zine release and performance for my doomsday cult."    It's not that I want them to be weirded out, in fact, I'd love it if my family understood.  My brother is about 5 years younger than me, and he seems to understand alright; he knows what it's like to have a creative urge that doesn't go away no matter how crazy it might sound when you say it aloud.  In fact, I think my brother has actually come to really enjoy seeing me perform.  At the most recent 7 Minutes in Heaven show at Space 55, my brother came out and saw a piece I titled "Kevin Flanagan, Daredevil Extraordinaire" where his laughter rang out from the crowd in a way I found very validating.

"Bury me with my stuff."

"You'll love it, Dad!  We do improv metahumor."

 I had made the act revolve around me calling my mother to explain to her my plan to jump over a pile of monster trucks as she was my "next of kin" and the audience really loved listening to us talk. There was a sort of sheepish acceptance in my brother's laugh that stood out from the audience, a shared link not only to our (occasionally) hilarious mother, but to the sense that there's a sort of comic futility in trying to get anyone, especially one's parents, to really understand what you do and why.  I think we all must have this existential dread about being understood, and it's sort of lame to present it as something artists have to deal with alot, but the truth is that I suspect my parents DO think I'm insane.  I'm certainly not doubting their affection for me- but any time I try to explain to them what I did or am doing, they get a glazed confused face that speaks volumes.  I imagined, watching the clip above, what it would be like if they actually had a chance to consume the creative body of work I've produced over the last few years and was filled with total dread.  I'm not ashamed, but if they're confused now, actually SEEING my work certainly isn't going to help.

However, I do feel like maybe I'm just waiting for the right thing to invite them to.  So much of what I do now is either obscurist or offensive (The Cult of the Yellow Sign is both) that I worry about alienating them further with something that's going to march them right out of the room.  The time for blasting horrible music directly at their room is over in my life- I'd really take no salacious glee in going "look at me, isn't this something you hate"  like I might have as a teenager.  Sure, there's a little of that in me still, but for the most part I now try to find a chance to direct it at audiences.