Patreon - the what, the why, and how to support Jara

Hey.

For over two weeks now, I've hosted an artist account on Patreon.  Patreon's like Kickstarter, but ongoing and monthly.  You can donate as little as a buck a month to support artists and receive special content and exclusive content before others do.

In these 14 days alone, I've posted:

Behind the scenes production photos
Diary Entries
Alternate tracks of previously recorded original songs
New poems
Little-known songs I've written
Sneak peek at scripts and excerpts of plays I've written
Easy, direct access to my You Tube song and poetry videos.

The site allows you to comment, provide feedback, post your own artwork, and share things together as a community,

So, why am I doing this?

Sure, it's a way to encourage more creative daily interaction.  But the heart of it is that I'm paralyzed with fear because my day job has issued some pretty tight fiscal cuts.  Got my first check after the changes last Friday and spent hours balancing my checkbook and making up a budget based on my monthly expenses.  And it's way worse than I thought. Due to my day job, due to increased medical expenses this year, and due to a lack of paid acting work so far this year, I'm short about $830 a month.

Yeah.

And this is with me living a pathetically spartan life.  Spending an average of 15 bucks a day on food.

So, I'm scared.

I'm hustling to find more acting work, part-time work. I've established this Patreon account.

www.patreon.com/jara

Don't know how long the center can hold.  Not sure what else I can strip away or do without.  Doing all I can to avoid more debt.

Realistically, I need to make $1000 more a month before taxes to break even, and $1500 more a month before taxes to actually start making inroads into my acting career.  But how?

Trophies - poem

Hey.

Here's a new poem.  Donors to my new Patreon account got to see it a week ago. I'll explain tomorrow more about the Patreon situation, and how it's a more updated, more communal version of ODES AND NONSENSE.

Used to find it 

Garish, 

Shivering myself warm in some dusty winter lodge, 

Gazing upon a prostrate 

Bear skin rug. 

Glass eyes wide and blinkless, shining glimpses of the crackling fireplace. 

Seemed wasteful. 

Beyond the logistics of recreational murder. 

Creating and hunting a monster Is a rich person’s game. 

One needs professionals. 

The most patient, effective 

Tools to tear out flesh. 

One must isolate that still-beating 

Note of empathy, muffle it into a cold, tuneless void. 

One must suffer to make the silent, shockwave sounds of greater suffering. 

Some years ago, Through savings and death and inheritance, 

Through the compound interest of dissatisfaction, I found my own quarry. 

Chose my hunting party. 

Slouched uneasily in the orthodontics chair. 

And, with a minimal gloss of anesthetic, 

Had a front row seat to the death of that beast. 

His gnarled and yellowed fangs, wrestled brutely 

From their bleeding stumps. And yes, 

Though it was and remains 

More waking terror-torture than  I’ve ever known 

I demanded those nine teeth be surrendered to me. 

In a paper envelope, creased with a thin stamp of blood. 

But what marks me apart from other hunters is this: 

They’re not displayed. 

No pride or pompous pleasure fills 

A room with this torment, this work. 

They’re tossed in an unused closet, along with 

Old, handwritten love letters and mementos 

From mentors long dead from cancer.