13.11.10

loops and hurdles

i'm on the verge of a new decade. twenty years isn't too long in the grand scheme of human lifespans (and is but half a second in the span of human existence, and less than that in the span of the existence of existence).

i spent my last day as a teenager working, going to the library, and sitting around my apartment. it's a saturday night. i am drinking hot chocolate and reading about how to undo writer's block. i'd rather read "the new kings of nonfiction" or "a mind of its own: a cultural history of the penis" or "siddartha" or any of the other things i checked out today, but i know this is good for me. i know that reading without writing is like drinking without peeing; it'll all get stored up and then i'll wet myself in public and cry. not to mention the kidney failure and various other implications. so, piss i must.

the reason i'm not writing is procrastination. i make everything an excuse not to write—and i make writing an excuse not to do other things. it's pathological. currently, i'm writing here instead of writing songs, or cleaning, or reading that book on writer's block.

the other reason i'm not writing is because writing is a way to deal with things, and i just don't want to lately. this is dumb. but looking at oneself and one's life and all of the inherent madness is difficult. it always is. but it needs to be done, sooner or later. (i'm just making it later out of fear of some sort.)

i suppose i'm also not writing out of a lack of confidence. there are so many writers in the world; how do i suspect to join their ranks? not just songwriters, but nonfiction writers and novelists and journalists and essayists. i want to be one of those. but it seems that there are so many of them—who am i to compete? who am i to do anything, really? and why pick writing, out of all of the things i could do, when there are obviously many other options with less competition? it's difficult.

music is rough. words are rough. i hope to be part time next semester so i can spend more time working on my craft and making money and less time feeling stressed about not writing and not making money.

this blog is just here to prove to myself that i can still put words together, i think. i know it never really had an audience beside the occasional lurker and the ever-present spambots. but that's a good thing. less pressure. i don't have to write for anyone but myself.




the public library has books on smallpox, politics, poverty, and poetry. i want to live there. maybe i should've gotten a degree in library science and lived a quiet, sensible life, just reading everything and doing nothing.

but i can't do that, now.

1 comment:

Dean Alexander Supertramp said...

You are so... beautiful.
And I can't put my finger on why.

Your mind so different.
And at times? You remind me so much...
An ancient secret floating on the lips of an infant.

I'm listening, and eager.
No pressure.