Here comes that shit again.
August 13, 2011 § 3 Comments
“Punks in drag” – Ryan Adam – Halloweenhead.
I often think about writing. Some days it’s slow and jittery, stalling almost, making me like a stubborn child trying desperately to fit that square block through that triangle hole. But some nights it flows and just falls out of the brain with the fingers in a desperate rush to keep up with the mind which is already pulling away with a lead of around three sentences. I think about the way some people strive to be poetic. The way some people strive to be to-the-point and effective. The way they both try to be honest. It’s honesty from a distance. Like a boxer with a long reach just trying to line up the right combination of left and right. There’s nothing dishonest about the outcome there. Sometimes in writing you will just say the first thing that pops up into your head. Guitar Solo! Oh what a juvenile way to make an unwitty point. Shit – I’m trailing off here. Back to the road and the straight and narrow. Easy Tiger – Ryan Adams – That was a really really special album. Focus man. What were you tying to say? Writing isn’t about being cute. Far be it from me to start preaching like some sort of right-wing madman wielding a Magnum at a church full of people in some southern state. I’m far from the greatest writer – I know that – but I also know a thing or two. Writing for the sake of being cute is the most loathe some employment of this art. To make girls like you. Writing to be seen. Fuck you. Seriously – Fuck you. What a strange course this one has taken. It’s starting to feel like how I used to them before I screwed my head on a little tighter. All that is missing is the alcohol coursing through what used to be my blood and is now is just a mess fire water and cold pace. I think I will be changing this soon. I tried so hard to keep myself from falling back into my bad old ways. But here I am. Here we are again. Remember this? There will be few who do. The mad way I used to be. I can feel it. It always turns up on the run towards Christmas. Remember this Jimmy? You better kid. It always turns up. I have this feeling. It’s rare for me but not so rare that I don’t know what it is. What it means. I don’t really believe in fortune tellers or much in the way of mystical. But I believe in this. In this feeling. I know what it means. A girl is coming. Someone new. It’s been awhile since I’ve been this excited. Maybe I’m finally ready to be stupid again. Really fucking stupid. I feel like that mad guy, on his knees in the street shouting up at the rain, in a suite and tie, from a great actors trying to save a bad script. Level out.
In this blog I would like to think that I have maintained honesty. Even in my darkest moments, especially in the early days. This was a place that I knew I was safe to put my thoughts down for awhile. Without the worrying burden of judgement but the benefit of genuine concern. That’s what writing is. An outlet. A way to communicate through words a little more thought out than those expelled via the mouth. People will call me crazy. Fuck it, doctors could even. But this is my medium. Leave their poets to poetry and painters to their paintings, leave the rockstar to his stage, the singer to her piano chords and tones and keys, this is my sonnet, my canvas, my fret board, this is my vocal chords.