I’ve finally reached the point of recognizing that i want to, but cant quite reach the pedals, realizing im still in the back seat, reaching around the front seat back-rest at a full stretch. today i called the apartment rental company folks and mentioned to a disinterested office gal that i thought i’d pay by monday, she purported to pen a note to my management rep. mm hmmm. called A Gal about her move and the state o her kids, she was great, glad, tired, exhausted, keen. I constantly daydream about it being me who had kids, how incredibly bizarre that i haven’t, how lucky and random and looming. Ah, that subject, sirs and mademoiselles, much too large
i’ve got to turn back to the bigger intentional shtick in art. ie, writing, composing, doing it directly, doing it consistently. i gotta find some organization, it is a marvel already to find myself a second day in a row, before the same locale, trying to relate slipshot streams slumping through my brain before the inevitable distraction of the hermits utopia of interweb provides. i’ve gotta resist it, there is too much to learn, and the delineations are limited. i’ve gotta focus on what i’ve got already, i never process, never reflect enough to warrant opening my eyes and ears so much. so yes. receipts. i’m spitting em out lately, ears and eyes. i wanna free up these gapes, use the ol finger tips. i’ve gotta find some range of motion, some utility and disc space. this metabolic fluff is hopefully a first step, and not a deferment that will stretch imperceptibly into infinity.
i always get sidetracked by these bizarre inclinations to edit, as if spelling errors or a lapse in consistent prose or voice would really rock the rafters of the normal reader. i’m not even writing for anyone yet, this is just rags through a rusted engine, heavy metal brushes looking for the oxidized elephants at the plus and minus sides of this Java battery.
the world is stretching out twos by twos, the thousands of artifacts i inescapably save and reserve, important, dire, sinister, pristine. these things mean the world and nothing, they are like mummies hairs and spiders shoes. im trying to piece through how i should proceed, where i should, what fiction means to me, if anything, if art is something i buy into, of course.
i’ve gotta find my way in these things. ive gotta find out if i wanna write or cry, get it going. there is far too little riding on this for me to ignore it. hurdles are boring, introspection mesmerizing. a rose nebula is staring at ones fingertips too closely Trying to get more intentional about finding new music, looking up and memorizing lyrics and chord structures, seeing other peoples visions of progression. So many professors in france, like Saad, always harping on the fact that as children they had so much poetry memorized, they’d always pose the question at us, whaddaya got. Nothing. The highwayman. Bits o shakespeare. The new storytellers are never novelists, because society is so coked up nobodys got the attention span for books alongside tv. But music is so passive, its utterly different. As long as the backbeat is strong folk will come and listen, unconsciously being reached from beyond the bass line. I’m making these lists of people, setting up parameters of a voice, trying to define myself against the barbarians, which and which will be in my ancestry, ladening myself with stony heads for the filial photo.
I’m trying to force myself to sit down, write down lyrics. Just feel the necessary engagement of sitting down and writing, keeping something, keeping organized and persistent. My laziness has plateaued, the instantaneous gratification bit is not sustainable nor entirely gratifying, its just like eating ice cream every meal got less attractive when you grew up, moved, and realized you always had the choice.
i’m making steps towards these things, baby steps. i’ll get there. day three trying to whisper into this chinked wall, i’m getting there. my fingers are reattaching themselves to this glass aquarium like an octapus from behind a rock. i’m beginning to look in on myself, still wary of the gawking toddlers and camera flashes. i’ll swim soon