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Yet another new blog. hoping for some sort of mad inspiration. But not really complacent about it coming. Just write. Write. Write. Write. Yeah. That's it, baby. Go, go, go. Look like you're doing some fancy ass writing. Writing something that has some earth-shattering consequence. Yeah, baby. Write like the wind. Look busy, like you've discovered the cure for cancer/HIV/common cold/lethargy/and the ennui that living in this ever-hungry, gaping maw of a consumerist society seems to be infected with. Go! Write as if the world depends on your getting these words down. Don't worry about the mess, the madness, the terrible syntax--you can choose to be the only one who ever reads this. Even if, for a few lines, you've entertained the notion of just slapping this up on a blog. Freewriting blog? How painful for the rare soul who'd stumble across this. But the faint chance that someone, somewhere, may read it can be quite motivating. Perhaps this is just to prove to myself that I don't have to write well. It's just a draft. It's just a way to get the writing juju going before diving into bigger things. I don't see this being about anything in particular. In fact, I don't want it to be about anything in particular. Simply the horror of trying to break out of this block I've got against writing. God, I hate writing! And yet, it's the most amazing thing that I know how to do. Creating worlds that march to my rules. How selfish. How egocentric--and yet--what a healthy way to pretend to be the center of the universe. This way, I hope, I won't subject my family and friends to the unadulterated horror that is my self-centered whining. The wingeing and the whimpering and the howling dissipate into the aether, harming no one. If you've made it this far (my stupid ego--as if anyone would) my sympathies. Now go away and do something more productive. Like cutting your toenails. Cheers. |
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Went out and bought myself a timer today. I expect to have a spectacular startle response when the bell rings. None of this electric beep, beep, beep for me. Have you noticed that all of the electronic noises that inhabit our days have faded so much into the background that we only notice them by their absence? It's an extra treat when the power goes out--the luxury of silence. We don't have enough of it in this urban world. I'm a hypocrite. I'm typing and wearing earphones to listen to music so I don't become fixated on the ticking timer. Gah. Trying to not edit as I go is almost impossible. Let's give this another shot. There's a light samba rhythm weaving through my consciousness. The round-noted voice of the smooth singer is tasting the round syllables of a Japanese song. Conga drums are playing a basic mother beat, the strings swell behind like a sail. The sophisticated jazz syncopation of the vibraphone rides out the bridge. All I need is the sound of cocktails being shaken, ice clattering, and the sun setting into the golden hour. Song's over. What will we have next? Ah. Intricate guitar, Spanish influence. Woot! We've got some serious dance-y stuff going on here. Yeah. |
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Had a strange dream last night. Gad, I've got to cut my nails! I can't type worth shit. Back to the dream; it was odd. Don't remember most of it (and aren't I glad we can't remember most of our dreams?) but do remember smoking two cigarettes. It's night. It's a seedy, dark alley--like behind the old 9:30 Club. Cobbled street, bowed towards the center from a hundred years+ of traffic. Pools of stagnant, stinking water reflect light refracting down from illegal apartments and lofts. The occasional brighter glare of someone's cigarette as he or she takes a drag snaps my attention to the reflections. Rats as long as my arm saunter across the space. They're heading towards the dumpsters. I can hear other rats knocking over boxes and bags, looking for the good stuff. Colorful cursing of the roadies rises up into the orange-glazed night. They move heavy equipment on too small casters, blistering the air with bitching as the cobbles make the wheels useless. |
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I am trying to lose myself in writing. I am also trying to cut down on the use of everyone's favorite pronoun, I. It's not going well. Just like anyone else, I am fascinated with myself. I think I'm endlessly witty, always in the right, and never failing. Ah, delusions are grand. The sky came clear this afternoon. Working out to the strange selection of music loaded onto my player is a treat. Watched some telenovela, some soap opera, and CNN. CNN was the funniest as it tries to create news where none exists. It's much better to spend hours on some reverend in some church where one of the candidates spent some time rather than on real news. Hey guys, what's happening in Europe? Africa? Asia? Australia? Speaking of Australia, my uncle says he got a shirt in Austria that says, "There are no kangaroos in Austria." He found it amusing. There seems to be no time to say anything. But the ten minute discipline is forcing thoughts to coalesce. Too bad it's not coherent. My stomach is asking for some more food. It's like Oliver Twist. No you can't have any more food, my belly. There's only so much you should have in you. Feeling winter-fluffy. Doing something about it, but the tedium is...bleargh. |
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One of the great things about having the luxury of time is that you can pursue thoughts down every rabbit hole and see where they lead. I've been spending about an hour a day walking on a treadmill. There's terrible music in the health club, so the little music player is a real treat. So here I've got this chunk of time and there's nothing to do but think. Or zone out. There are lots of distractions--who knew that watching telenovelas with the sound off could be so fascinating. Not for the storylines, nor the "acting", but for the amazing, ghetto-riffic clothes they stick the female stars into. Oh, the guys aren't far behind. And I'm about to go to LA just to shove the fake-old straw cowboy hat up the costumers ass... But I digress. Thinking. The ol' brain box is still in shock. Exercising. Eating better. Oy gevalt. Next thing you know, I'll be addicted to age-inappropriate clothing. Skirts above knees! Gah! *laugh* It's interesting seeing other women at the gym. You can tell the little gym bunnies with their perfectly manicured nails. But you can also see the abundance of tattoos and piercings that the majority of people seem to have. I wonder how much longer corporate America will be able to discriminate against those who've decided to mark themselves? I know, for me, that if I see someone with piercings or a tattoo I tend to trust them a little more. In general. Honestly, it depends. I see some tool with a kanji the size of Plano, Texas on their arm I get the sense that they're trend followers--neither original nor interesting. Now, some unusual piece of work, one that shows some care and thought went into it? That is a big okay in my book. But the work has to be done with care and obvious planning. I'm a snob like that. Ciao. |