he sits on the couch
every night, in the glow
of the machine,
glasses on,
to read. to write.
saturated by the glare
that makes his head throb
most days- searching.
waiting. for it.
doom scrolling. likes. hearts.
google searches:
poems. inside he breaths
quietly with intention.
mindful awareness
leads to boredom
most days.
the ball starts rolling
him chasing
to keep up,
desperate for an image
or some efficacious metaphor
he can dress up with
rags from the thesaurus.
there is nothing glamorous
or romantic about this
procedure. like all habit
there is a comfortable familiarity
that hems the mundane
spectacle of routine.
but to disprove the notion of talent
he clocks the hours
every night. like erosion
or rot. as everything breaks down
he will be there,
to see what’s
next.
Showing posts with label writersblock. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writersblock. Show all posts
April 29, 2021
119/365
January 28, 2021
28/365
i need inspiration to get this one off the ground.
i move to the bedroom
grab the novel i’m reading
mine a line
to get things started.
once in the room
the light of our
permanent plastic mini
christmas tree
and the whiff of
a homemade
cherry merlot candle
are calm and soothing
i execute push ups
60-90 of the daily 100
only 10 left before bed
that’s a 100 a day for 393 days
but the middle-aged gut
still feels foreign on this former skinny body.
i grab the book and flip it randomly:h
her eyes sour with animal confusion.
what the hell do you expect me to do with that?
the cats were angry
when we all got home after dark
sitting in the silence
pacing
moaning
perhaps with sour
animal
confused
eyes
November 21, 2016
Tolerance
Thank you for your concern. After my slightly dour post last night, several of you sent me private messages or came to check on me in person today. I felt others were treating me pretty gently today. I appreciate the support, but just know that I am fine. I am tried and stretched a bit thin and running out of things to say on some night when the gas tank is empty, but overall my moods are in flux. I hope that when I look back on the 365 posts I will have written this year that the trend is happy, hopeful, and hard working, but of course there will be a few posts like last night’s.
How could there not be?
I think most of us mask our funks, but I have chosen to give voice to every day and every emotion, so sometimes those voices sounds low and sad and upset, but that is not the complete picture.
I feel that I am in a state of metamorphosis these days. I have some big plans for the new year and I am sitting with them for this time period in a cocoon to see if I really want to commit to them or not.
I am riding out a stretch of working for twenty plus days without a weekend and after tomorrow night’s three-way conferences with parents, there will be some respite. The light at the end of this tunnel, that begin ironically on November 8th, is here tomorrow, so I will try and give voice to the other voices in my head.
…
The intolerant among us are claiming that the tolerant among us are being intolerant toward the intolerant among us.
So much so that the tolerant among us are starting to feel intolerant toward the intolerant among us.
I know for sure, because as someone who thinks of himself as the tolerant among us,
I am feeling quite intolerant against the intolerant among us even as they ask for tolerance from the tolerant among us.
But if the intolerant among us really wanted tolerance from the tolerant among us, they could start by showing a little tolerance toward the tolerant among us.
And as the tolerant among us, if our true nature is tolerance then shouldn’t we show some tolerance toward the intolerant among us?
But this is so hard, because by the very nature of tolerance, the tolerant among us have a hard time facing the intolerant among us,
because by the nature of the intolerant among us, the existence of the tolerant among us is in jeopardy.
Tolerance cannot survive with intolerance.
Intolerance can only be destroyed by tolerance.
This is our bind.
How could there not be?
I think most of us mask our funks, but I have chosen to give voice to every day and every emotion, so sometimes those voices sounds low and sad and upset, but that is not the complete picture.
I feel that I am in a state of metamorphosis these days. I have some big plans for the new year and I am sitting with them for this time period in a cocoon to see if I really want to commit to them or not.
I am riding out a stretch of working for twenty plus days without a weekend and after tomorrow night’s three-way conferences with parents, there will be some respite. The light at the end of this tunnel, that begin ironically on November 8th, is here tomorrow, so I will try and give voice to the other voices in my head.
…
The intolerant among us are claiming that the tolerant among us are being intolerant toward the intolerant among us.
So much so that the tolerant among us are starting to feel intolerant toward the intolerant among us.
I know for sure, because as someone who thinks of himself as the tolerant among us,
I am feeling quite intolerant against the intolerant among us even as they ask for tolerance from the tolerant among us.
But if the intolerant among us really wanted tolerance from the tolerant among us, they could start by showing a little tolerance toward the tolerant among us.
And as the tolerant among us, if our true nature is tolerance then shouldn’t we show some tolerance toward the intolerant among us?
But this is so hard, because by the very nature of tolerance, the tolerant among us have a hard time facing the intolerant among us,
because by the nature of the intolerant among us, the existence of the tolerant among us is in jeopardy.
Tolerance cannot survive with intolerance.
Intolerance can only be destroyed by tolerance.
This is our bind.
August 29, 2016
The Core
It’s day 242 of writing these daily posts, so what the hell is there left to say? I can’t bring myself to talk about work anymore. It’s busy. It’s interesting. It’s different. It’s going well.
I also need to take a break from the grief and the sadness until the end of this week. So where doe that leave me?
I am listening to The Smiths for reasons I don’t feel I need to explain.
"How can they look into my eyes
And still they don't believe me
How can they hear me say those words
And still they don't believe me..."
Transported back in time- I am twelve years old and listening to the album on vinyl on my dad’s stereo. There is no one home, because both my parents are at work. The music is louder than my mom would like if she were home. I am dancing in a way that kids at school would call ‘faggy” if they saw, and I might be wearing some lipstick. It’s alone time with music and nothing else ever matters at times like this. The world makes sense alone with loud music.
"Oh has the world changed, or have I changed?
Oh has the world changed, or have I changed?"
Morrissey is coming to Singapore, and although I spent many afternoons lost in the music of The Smiths, I have no desire to see him. He has lost his appeal. But playing these old songs tonight has been fun.
…
I am surrounded by a dull numbness. A writer’s block that demands to be fed, but refuses any sustenance. It is not attached to any emotional baggage. I have been honest and clear with myself about the tension of my new job and the process of grieving Karen’s passing.
All of that feels under control, but when I remove those things, there seems to be little left at my core and so writing about other things feels like a chore.
I think I need to refill my core with some things other than grief and work. This week will be a challenge with a particularly busy week, followed by my trip to California, but I am on the market for some new things on which to dwell.
A project. Some art to absorb. Perhaps a better book. I need to get back into my running routine.
"Please, please, please let me get what I want this time..."
What do you fill your core with?
I also need to take a break from the grief and the sadness until the end of this week. So where doe that leave me?
I am listening to The Smiths for reasons I don’t feel I need to explain.
"How can they look into my eyes
And still they don't believe me
How can they hear me say those words
And still they don't believe me..."
Transported back in time- I am twelve years old and listening to the album on vinyl on my dad’s stereo. There is no one home, because both my parents are at work. The music is louder than my mom would like if she were home. I am dancing in a way that kids at school would call ‘faggy” if they saw, and I might be wearing some lipstick. It’s alone time with music and nothing else ever matters at times like this. The world makes sense alone with loud music.
"Oh has the world changed, or have I changed?
Oh has the world changed, or have I changed?"
Morrissey is coming to Singapore, and although I spent many afternoons lost in the music of The Smiths, I have no desire to see him. He has lost his appeal. But playing these old songs tonight has been fun.
…
I am surrounded by a dull numbness. A writer’s block that demands to be fed, but refuses any sustenance. It is not attached to any emotional baggage. I have been honest and clear with myself about the tension of my new job and the process of grieving Karen’s passing.
All of that feels under control, but when I remove those things, there seems to be little left at my core and so writing about other things feels like a chore.
I think I need to refill my core with some things other than grief and work. This week will be a challenge with a particularly busy week, followed by my trip to California, but I am on the market for some new things on which to dwell.
A project. Some art to absorb. Perhaps a better book. I need to get back into my running routine.
"Please, please, please let me get what I want this time..."
What do you fill your core with?
January 5, 2015
Total Trash
I'm forty years old, listening to Sonic Youth, and I just spent an hour working on a short story I am writing for middle school kids about how the cool kids treated me like shit when I was thirteen. It feels lukewarm and cliche, and the story isn't going any where either. I was hoping to maybe write a batch of stories about said issues for said audience, but now I am not sure. I have a 47,500 word memoir thing of vignettes and snippets that lack any sort of plot, conflict or point sitting on a file on my computer. I'm not sure where to take it.
I know I want to write more this year. That was my goal, but these nights when I ignore my work responsibility and start to write it feels awkward and clunky and not right. Last night after I wrote this, I lay wake in bed grappling with my own mediocrity.
What if I will never be good enough to match my own expectations? What if my lack of talent or the lack of dedication I showed in my youth toward any kid of craft can never be surpassed in my middle age? What if I now know that I will never be good enough? Forget about the need to be famous or good or any of those pipe dreams, but what if I won't even be able to write for my own needs?
It was a hard night before bed, but then there was this memory:
There is a pounding. I can hear it loud and clear. Unbound sets of waves crash like lifetimes against an invisible shore. The sky. A sea. Blurred by an inky shadow, which is only highlighted by cresting liquid rims. Could that be the cold wet sand quivering beneath my feet as they shout and revel in the freedom of a night, tossed so carelessly out of time and place? They are there I am here, but I should not be alone. I look for her hand, but she is nowhere. I am here. I am alone.
I can hear them laughing. Raving. Howling. They must be mad. Drunk with the wanton power of these hidden breakers. The incurious moon covers her ears and rolls over, turning her back on the thoughtless soul-slaking below. A patch of bashful stars peaking from behind the remnants of a sole cloud, giggle and point, twinkling in an otherwise empty sky.
I can smell the pressure before I can feel it. The scent lingers in the air entangling my equilibrium with its condensed phases. It is a measure of the tendency of molecules and atoms to escape from a liquid or a solid. I am evaporating. Volatilized. It is too dark to tell if I am alone or if the entire beach is disappearing.
There is a flickr. A flash. Ignition. The sea is on fire. He is on the wrong side of the breakers behind a wall of fire. They are kicking the empty gas can into the water. He’s laughing. Swallowing gasoline. He is on fire. It’s difficult to tell if the screaming from shore is shaped by panic or ecstasy. I can see his distorted face shimmering through the blaze. Although he’s finally removed his burning jacket, his face is still tainted by the terror of being trapped behind a watery inferno.
I can’t make out any words. The wall of fire burning ten feet high as verdant petroleum doused waves crash through it has me mesmerized. The wet sand between my toes is the only thing that’s real. Fear is only what we refuse to look at head on. It is only what we allow to take us from the present moment.
There is no fear in the unfragmented now. I see it all. Feel the heat from the flames both outside and within. The cool breeze of the raw night and the victorious applause.
They have gathered at the end of the fiery line, now subdued and brilliant in its azure and violent glory. He ambles out from the surf as I run over. We don’t even have a towel for him. I will never know whether he won or lost. The fire and the night both die to black and nothing is left.
So who knows? What else is there in the face of doubt, but to keep at it. Maybe I will be the story they tell when I am eighty, "He didn't get going till he was in his 40's. It was like he suddenly got it. Or, he finally dedicated the time to his craft and began to write well well after he was forty. Maybe they will say, yeah he didn't even write a song till he was fifty."
Or maybe, they won't say anything and I will fade into obscurity having said nothing. A random scattering of digital detritus in the forms of these blogs blowing through the emptiness of cyber space. Melodramatic? Yeah, maybe, but you didn't hear what Thurston Moore just did with that guitar.
It's never the same
It's more than a game
Can't take it away
Can't kill all the shame...
I know I want to write more this year. That was my goal, but these nights when I ignore my work responsibility and start to write it feels awkward and clunky and not right. Last night after I wrote this, I lay wake in bed grappling with my own mediocrity.
What if I will never be good enough to match my own expectations? What if my lack of talent or the lack of dedication I showed in my youth toward any kid of craft can never be surpassed in my middle age? What if I now know that I will never be good enough? Forget about the need to be famous or good or any of those pipe dreams, but what if I won't even be able to write for my own needs?
It was a hard night before bed, but then there was this memory:
There is a pounding. I can hear it loud and clear. Unbound sets of waves crash like lifetimes against an invisible shore. The sky. A sea. Blurred by an inky shadow, which is only highlighted by cresting liquid rims. Could that be the cold wet sand quivering beneath my feet as they shout and revel in the freedom of a night, tossed so carelessly out of time and place? They are there I am here, but I should not be alone. I look for her hand, but she is nowhere. I am here. I am alone.
I can hear them laughing. Raving. Howling. They must be mad. Drunk with the wanton power of these hidden breakers. The incurious moon covers her ears and rolls over, turning her back on the thoughtless soul-slaking below. A patch of bashful stars peaking from behind the remnants of a sole cloud, giggle and point, twinkling in an otherwise empty sky.
I can smell the pressure before I can feel it. The scent lingers in the air entangling my equilibrium with its condensed phases. It is a measure of the tendency of molecules and atoms to escape from a liquid or a solid. I am evaporating. Volatilized. It is too dark to tell if I am alone or if the entire beach is disappearing.
There is a flickr. A flash. Ignition. The sea is on fire. He is on the wrong side of the breakers behind a wall of fire. They are kicking the empty gas can into the water. He’s laughing. Swallowing gasoline. He is on fire. It’s difficult to tell if the screaming from shore is shaped by panic or ecstasy. I can see his distorted face shimmering through the blaze. Although he’s finally removed his burning jacket, his face is still tainted by the terror of being trapped behind a watery inferno.
I can’t make out any words. The wall of fire burning ten feet high as verdant petroleum doused waves crash through it has me mesmerized. The wet sand between my toes is the only thing that’s real. Fear is only what we refuse to look at head on. It is only what we allow to take us from the present moment.
There is no fear in the unfragmented now. I see it all. Feel the heat from the flames both outside and within. The cool breeze of the raw night and the victorious applause.
They have gathered at the end of the fiery line, now subdued and brilliant in its azure and violent glory. He ambles out from the surf as I run over. We don’t even have a towel for him. I will never know whether he won or lost. The fire and the night both die to black and nothing is left.
So who knows? What else is there in the face of doubt, but to keep at it. Maybe I will be the story they tell when I am eighty, "He didn't get going till he was in his 40's. It was like he suddenly got it. Or, he finally dedicated the time to his craft and began to write well well after he was forty. Maybe they will say, yeah he didn't even write a song till he was fifty."
Or maybe, they won't say anything and I will fade into obscurity having said nothing. A random scattering of digital detritus in the forms of these blogs blowing through the emptiness of cyber space. Melodramatic? Yeah, maybe, but you didn't hear what Thurston Moore just did with that guitar.
It's never the same
It's more than a game
Can't take it away
Can't kill all the shame...
January 4, 2015
The Great Motivator
Are you happy? This is what you wanted. Right? To write more? Some kind of unspoke resolution, nothing public, so you wouldn't be held accountable. Something a bit more passive aggressive-- a piece of writing like this one. A sort of proof-is-in-pudding, stream of consciousness, first-thought-best-thought, lots-hyphens-and-dashes kind of post. This is what it looks like. Right?
Messy, incoherent. Not the beautiful Kerouacian haiku-like blurbs you envisioned, whilst walking in the rain around the reservoir. Posts like this one are much sexier when they still only possible ideas gyrating in your brain as the clouds move low and fast driving on the highway, drowning out your kids screaming.
You see yourself in a more Bohemian atmosphere. There is wine and smoke and late nights. Cool hats and maybe a bow tie. I will produce more than I consume, you whisper tiny promises to yourself. Less watching and reading, and more writing and strumming and creating.
Not so pretty though is it? Languishing in the all this blank space. The thoughts stumbling into each other like kids at a middle school dance. Each half baked metaphor appearing more ridiculous than the next. These acts of creation, this writing, this producing takes time and effort and struggle and pain and well.....it ain't easy.
Woah, woah, woah.....where did this chastising voice come from and who the hell are you yelling at? Yes, it does take time and yes smearing yourself into the blank spaces takes time. And yes, no one said art in any capacity was meant to be easy, but if we never start, then we will never create.
Sometimes, some nights, most nights we need to loosen the muscles, oil the wheels, and click clack these keys, to let the words and chords and whatever else needs to get out...get out. There is no need for grand resolutions or public announcements. The only thing that separates those that do and those that don't is that those who do. Do. How's that for a terribly written sentence that makes more sense that anything you have heard this week?
Some Thoughts- I should have been in a punk band when I was nineteen. It would be ridiculous for me to be in a punk band now, but I get it. That need to claim an identity that cannot exist in the status quo. Perhaps as adults, we need to understand that kids cannot simply be trained to be who we want them to be. The very nature of society is that it relies on it being fought against and push upon. I need to push upon something. I need DIY in a larger capacity. I need...I need.
More Thoughts- I am dying and I haven't done it yet. Anything. Written a book. Written a song. Sure there are these random thoughts. This blog. Twitter. Facebook. Me. You. But for what? Where is the work? The blood? The sweat? The tears?
Watching Sonic Highways made me realize that no matter what we dream, we have to do the work. We don't do the work to be famous. Or to change the world. But because doing the work is vital to our own sense of relevancy.
It seems, however, that people only do the work when they don't have a choice. It bubbles from somewhere beneath the rest of their lives. Have I given myself too many choices? Is life too easy to create? Or am I romanticizing the work and I am just being lazy?
Desperation is a great motivator, but what gets us going when we are not desperate? When we don't need to do the work? When TV shows, books, and Facebook and other distractions keep us just satisfied enough so we don't feel the need to create?
Can I at 40, in my comfortable bourgeois wonderland, focus enough to sit each night and wrestle with the work? Can I write enough admonishing posts like this one, to help kick start whatever comes next? Can I write in some kind of consistent manner? Do I have the discipline?
This is what you wanted. Right? To write more? Now shut the fuck up and write.
Messy, incoherent. Not the beautiful Kerouacian haiku-like blurbs you envisioned, whilst walking in the rain around the reservoir. Posts like this one are much sexier when they still only possible ideas gyrating in your brain as the clouds move low and fast driving on the highway, drowning out your kids screaming.
You see yourself in a more Bohemian atmosphere. There is wine and smoke and late nights. Cool hats and maybe a bow tie. I will produce more than I consume, you whisper tiny promises to yourself. Less watching and reading, and more writing and strumming and creating.
Not so pretty though is it? Languishing in the all this blank space. The thoughts stumbling into each other like kids at a middle school dance. Each half baked metaphor appearing more ridiculous than the next. These acts of creation, this writing, this producing takes time and effort and struggle and pain and well.....it ain't easy.
Woah, woah, woah.....where did this chastising voice come from and who the hell are you yelling at? Yes, it does take time and yes smearing yourself into the blank spaces takes time. And yes, no one said art in any capacity was meant to be easy, but if we never start, then we will never create.
Sometimes, some nights, most nights we need to loosen the muscles, oil the wheels, and click clack these keys, to let the words and chords and whatever else needs to get out...get out. There is no need for grand resolutions or public announcements. The only thing that separates those that do and those that don't is that those who do. Do. How's that for a terribly written sentence that makes more sense that anything you have heard this week?
Some Thoughts- I should have been in a punk band when I was nineteen. It would be ridiculous for me to be in a punk band now, but I get it. That need to claim an identity that cannot exist in the status quo. Perhaps as adults, we need to understand that kids cannot simply be trained to be who we want them to be. The very nature of society is that it relies on it being fought against and push upon. I need to push upon something. I need DIY in a larger capacity. I need...I need.
More Thoughts- I am dying and I haven't done it yet. Anything. Written a book. Written a song. Sure there are these random thoughts. This blog. Twitter. Facebook. Me. You. But for what? Where is the work? The blood? The sweat? The tears?
Watching Sonic Highways made me realize that no matter what we dream, we have to do the work. We don't do the work to be famous. Or to change the world. But because doing the work is vital to our own sense of relevancy.
It seems, however, that people only do the work when they don't have a choice. It bubbles from somewhere beneath the rest of their lives. Have I given myself too many choices? Is life too easy to create? Or am I romanticizing the work and I am just being lazy?
Desperation is a great motivator, but what gets us going when we are not desperate? When we don't need to do the work? When TV shows, books, and Facebook and other distractions keep us just satisfied enough so we don't feel the need to create?
Can I at 40, in my comfortable bourgeois wonderland, focus enough to sit each night and wrestle with the work? Can I write enough admonishing posts like this one, to help kick start whatever comes next? Can I write in some kind of consistent manner? Do I have the discipline?
This is what you wanted. Right? To write more? Now shut the fuck up and write.
April 13, 2013
Looking In The Bowl
I've been creatively constipated for the last few weeks. Has it been months? The words just don't come. I can feel them building up, a heavy clog, slow moving. Leaden. Damned. Congealed with broken thoughts, unraveling projects and empty promises. This might be what depression feels like- a yearning glance at the light. From the darkness.
The inexplicable part is that everything has been perfect lately. I couldn't be happier. Quality time with my family, relaxing days and open nights. A light mind, empty of stresses. Every time I sit on the pot, the words dry up and disappear. Tomorrow night, I will write the post about surfing. I will get back to my book this weekend. I'll scratch out a poem just after....
Writing seems to have lost meaning. What is the point? I haven't the energy to spend with the words much less the thoughts, or these paper images dancing in my mind before I sleep. They trickle out as Tweets, a lackluster storm. Leaving me damp, but not satisfied. I lie to myself, suggesting that I need merlot and a smoky room, fully aware that this only made it worse.
This is not for you. Not for me either. This isn't the plain girl declaring she is ugly to be told she is pretty. This is just me sitting and pushing and working through a clog.
Looking in the bowl and hoping to see any little turd that might float to the top. Letting me know that we can get back to the business writing.
The inexplicable part is that everything has been perfect lately. I couldn't be happier. Quality time with my family, relaxing days and open nights. A light mind, empty of stresses. Every time I sit on the pot, the words dry up and disappear. Tomorrow night, I will write the post about surfing. I will get back to my book this weekend. I'll scratch out a poem just after....
Writing seems to have lost meaning. What is the point? I haven't the energy to spend with the words much less the thoughts, or these paper images dancing in my mind before I sleep. They trickle out as Tweets, a lackluster storm. Leaving me damp, but not satisfied. I lie to myself, suggesting that I need merlot and a smoky room, fully aware that this only made it worse.
This is not for you. Not for me either. This isn't the plain girl declaring she is ugly to be told she is pretty. This is just me sitting and pushing and working through a clog.
Looking in the bowl and hoping to see any little turd that might float to the top. Letting me know that we can get back to the business writing.
cc licensed ( BY NC SA ) flickr photo shared by catheroo (cat edens)
Minutes later, I saw this. It helped a lot.
September 3, 2010
A Luxury I Have
I am in one of my weird dark moods. Not completely opaque mind you, there is a light. I see the light. Well, I don’t actually see it, but I can feel it’s warmth. It is a good light and it sustains me. It is Friday night, the house is quiet and I am tired. I am looking to write myself out of this shallow hole. Problem is I have little focus or patience for anything resembling an idea or any direction. This is where I am:
I am listening to Elliott Smith, and I wrote this 26 minutes ago.
It’s all I got. I know it is not much, and I should just close the laptop, grab a book and just relax, but I find value in documenting even the malaise and minutia.
Am I alone here? Do you ever just wake up in the morning, shuffle your feet in the darkness to the bathroom, look into your exhausted empty eyes and drop your head with the weight of disappointment and frustration when you are greeted by the same face you have been staring at your whole life. The same monologue begins to play in your head, and you know that you will be forced to listen to that incessant voice in your head for another day.
Having said that, I firmly believe that our lives cannot be photo albums filled only with smiles and celebrations. Sometimes we wallow, we grope, we struggle and we move on. I wouldn’t want it any other way. I like the dark tunnels; down here on my stomach scratching at the floor looking for a way back up is where I have learned the most about myself. Down here in the darkness is where I regain faith in myself. It is where I am reminded that the voice I complain is boring me, is the only voice that has been there since the beginning, and it will be the last voice I hear.
I know what you are thinking. This poor sap is suffering from self-loathing and low self-esteem, but believe me, as any reader of this blog or friend of mine can tell you, there is no lack of love for self here. Or maybe there is, how do I know I am no therapist. All I know is that I am pretty confident and usually make a pretty good go of it, but sometimes I allow myself to be carried away by the funk. I ride the waves of angst and let them carry me where they will. The result is most often a cliché trope of bourgeoisie angst that not even I will want to read in twenty minutes, but alas here it is.
The music has changed to Built to Spill and I can already see the clouds moving. You see maybe just a few words running along the sentence lines of this blank page are all we need to help make a seismic shift in attitude. Maybe we don’t need a new body. New eyes. New hair. A new outlook. New opinions and ideals. New core beliefs.
Maybe all we need is to allow the passage of time and a new song:
…and you better not be angry
and you better not be sad
you better just enjoy the luxury of sympathy
if that's a luxury you have
and you know no private bad
you know that that's the meaning of you're done
in a world that's not so bad
I am listening to Elliott Smith, and I wrote this 26 minutes ago.
It’s all I got. I know it is not much, and I should just close the laptop, grab a book and just relax, but I find value in documenting even the malaise and minutia.
Am I alone here? Do you ever just wake up in the morning, shuffle your feet in the darkness to the bathroom, look into your exhausted empty eyes and drop your head with the weight of disappointment and frustration when you are greeted by the same face you have been staring at your whole life. The same monologue begins to play in your head, and you know that you will be forced to listen to that incessant voice in your head for another day.
Having said that, I firmly believe that our lives cannot be photo albums filled only with smiles and celebrations. Sometimes we wallow, we grope, we struggle and we move on. I wouldn’t want it any other way. I like the dark tunnels; down here on my stomach scratching at the floor looking for a way back up is where I have learned the most about myself. Down here in the darkness is where I regain faith in myself. It is where I am reminded that the voice I complain is boring me, is the only voice that has been there since the beginning, and it will be the last voice I hear.
I know what you are thinking. This poor sap is suffering from self-loathing and low self-esteem, but believe me, as any reader of this blog or friend of mine can tell you, there is no lack of love for self here. Or maybe there is, how do I know I am no therapist. All I know is that I am pretty confident and usually make a pretty good go of it, but sometimes I allow myself to be carried away by the funk. I ride the waves of angst and let them carry me where they will. The result is most often a cliché trope of bourgeoisie angst that not even I will want to read in twenty minutes, but alas here it is.
The music has changed to Built to Spill and I can already see the clouds moving. You see maybe just a few words running along the sentence lines of this blank page are all we need to help make a seismic shift in attitude. Maybe we don’t need a new body. New eyes. New hair. A new outlook. New opinions and ideals. New core beliefs.
Maybe all we need is to allow the passage of time and a new song:
by the way the guitar at the end of this clip is off the hook
…and you better not be angry
and you better not be sad
you better just enjoy the luxury of sympathy
if that's a luxury you have
and you know no private bad
you know that that's the meaning of you're done
in a world that's not so bad
July 28, 2010
Sickness
It hurts. Drained. Wrecked. Weak body malnourished kept alive by these sad songs. We seldom think back to these quiet nights when our bodies recuperate from a mild sickness. Tonight these sore joints and mild headache surround each minute like a shroud, but are quickly forgotten when we are well.
It is taking my mind off the malaise if I shine the light on it for a few minutes tonight. Loss of appetite, but starving. Such minor aches and pains, seem trivial to think about while others are starving or crying from cancer or aids. A cold soar, sniff neck and nausea. Fatigue and headache. Pain in the teeth.
Just need to shuffle these words and regurgitate them onto this empty page and leave them alone till I find a remedy.
Wrecked sad songs.
quiet nights. sore joints
each minute a shroud
on the malaise I shine a light
a few minutes of appetite.
aches and pains
in the teeth.
It is taking my mind off the malaise if I shine the light on it for a few minutes tonight. Loss of appetite, but starving. Such minor aches and pains, seem trivial to think about while others are starving or crying from cancer or aids. A cold soar, sniff neck and nausea. Fatigue and headache. Pain in the teeth.
Just need to shuffle these words and regurgitate them onto this empty page and leave them alone till I find a remedy.
Wrecked sad songs.
quiet nights. sore joints
each minute a shroud
on the malaise I shine a light
a few minutes of appetite.
aches and pains
in the teeth.
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