I finished writing a short memoir last night about my mother. Now I’m sitting here waiting for the wind to sweep me into something else to write about.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing or where I’m going. I stay up all night and sleep all day. My stomach aches constantly. I drank too much coffee chasing my muse through these last few weeks of dark nights.
I’m waiting for contentment in something. I don't know what that something is. There’s nothing good on T.V. and the computer rots my brain.
My books bore me. The music has all been the same stuff on repeat. I’ve been trying to find something new to listen to.
I keep getting this idea that if I had some pot it would all go away. The boredom that drives me crazy. Maybe I’ve just been by myself without human contact for a couple weeks. The phone doesn’t help the loneliness, but I like being alone at the same time.
I miss having wheels. I miss being able to go for a drive in the middle of the night and smoke a cigarette with the radio blasting tunes and the cool wind whistling in my ears.
In Indiana I would take drives at two in the morning for some taco bell, a soda, and would take the back roads through gravel trails. I would be high at the time coming to terms with why the Beatles were so great. Janis Joplin was there too.
I’m listening to Graham Nash right now. H’s perfect right now for how I feel. He doesn’t even sound like he’s trying. He doesn’t sing the coolest stuff but you can tell it comes from somewhere real.
I often wonder if what I write is really me or just a faint attempt at being a good writer. I suck at description and I use the word ‘I’ too much. I feel self-centered every time I mention myself.
The artistic road is confusing to me. On one hand you express yourself. On the other hand you do it to be seen. Jaded. Two sided. Crooked. Hmmm.
I have ideas. I have a lot of ideas. But I can’t give them life because I’ve never lived those ideas. They’re all sad stories. Their all sad truths too. I don’t know how to write happy things. Maybe because I’ve never been truly happy.
I want a typewriter. There’s something final about a piece of paper with words on it instead of a screen. On a screen the words are easy to forget and change and rearrange as if they were never there. All mistakes are easily fixed and erased. But that’s not reality. I hate the internet.
That’s another one of those ideas I have that I feel jaded about. I use it. I love it. The world operates on it. If I want to be a writer I’ll probably have to use electronics to push my shit, at first anyway. I miss paper. I know it kills trees but I don’t care. Pennsylvania isn’t using their trees. Let’s kills those ones.
Sometimes the words flow through me. Most of the time they don’t and I start to feel obligated to write. That’s what I’m doing now anyway. People say I’m a good writer but I think I’m full of shit.
The only times I feel like a good writer is when the ideas come and I put them down. That’s the best part. Its when I have to make everyone else understand them that I get frustrated. The voice in my head is different than the one I use. Its much more eloquent and fluid. It uses the same words I do but somehow they seem more inspired when I speak them to myself.
I’m gonna’ steal a couple of lines from Don McLean, “I wish my brain would operate instead of standing still. Its all so complicated. I don’t know how I let some of those ideas out of the box. It was just a feeling I had. I liked the verses. They were so nice and even. My eye will never be that good again. I lost a sense of rhythm but I gained a sense of time.”
What would life be like if you were never born? You ever wonder that? If you never existed? I do a lot. Nobody would know about you so I don’t want to hear anything about anyone being sad. Its a fun thought. Who would have taken your place? What would they have done differently? How would they have connected the dots? Filled in the blanks?
I also like to think about Jesus, Buddha, and Muhammed walking down the street on the way to their “dad’s” house. What if all these religious figures were all related at some point? What made them all decide to fight? Or maybe there was no quarrel. Maybe their respective children just heard something wrong along the way of their discipleship and fucked it all up. I don’t know. Why do we live our lives based on what some dude a long time ago said?
What if T-Rex’s are the evolved form of kangaroos? I’m pretty sure I’m up to something with that idea. If I knew a paleontologist I would tell them that. Maybe make a couple mil. and get my license back.
I’d probably just take the money and pull a “Fear and Loathing”. I’d fill my trunk with drugs and hit the desert and end up dying in a puddle of my own vomit with a mojave whore rummaging through my shit and a buzzard plucking my eye balls out. Maybe that’s why I’m tied to a shiny red lead filled balloon.
But maybe I’m wrong. I don’t know. I’m gonna’ go have a cigarette and try to call on the gods for an idea. Maybe sell my soul for one. You’ll know if I do.
KJ out.
July 18, 2014
No comments:
Post a Comment