Sprung Break

So magically full of base camping bliss and brilliant times. As soon as this bio test is over, life begins. This is basically all I can think about right now, except for the usual stuff like eating and sleeping.

I don't claim rights on that^^^


My parents got rid of their internets a few weeks ago because Mom said it was too distracting. I'm kind of looking forward to a week w/out nets, tho I'm sure by the end I'll be seeing the Facebook logo when I close my eyes.

Hopefully no internet=more writing.

Dat Brass

Seriously though...that brass line...that is some funky stuff, Frankie--despite the vaguely misogynistic undertone of the lyrics. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't going to be listening to this song while I'm working on the ending for "Lady Luck."

Spiders

wait for it...wait for it...waaaaait!....chorusgasm!

This brings back some good memories...I lost several frequencies of hearing at a Wilco concert.  I don't miss them.

I think I will always be a little more fond of Wilco's avant-garde stuff. Jeff Tweedy's lyrics just lend themselves to crazy freak-out break-downs. And Nels Cline plays the guitar like a piano.

Other forms

The Nothing

We are at the ocean: the boardwalk coated in salt and rust and the swirling scents of greasy sandwiches, deep-fried-fillets, close bodies slow burning in the haze. The benches are no good for sitting today, covered in vacation residue. Our home base becomes the corner by the stairs tracked with cryptogram shoe patterns of white-snow-sand. Waning summer air carries thoughts across the sea where they crash land on your face and you are reminded of changing seasons. You say this and wait. Press your hips against the red railing. A two foot drop into sand. Change like the tide mumbles from my lips and tongue onto that whirling dervish air. I am consumed in anticipation. You are deep in you.

You say yes and proceed to announce to the contents of the sunny summer day that you are worried about the nature of existence and whether the loops of doubt are ceaseless machines that jackhammer you into the queue of other surrendered souls, orbiting each other in anonymity—because it seems that you are freshly fitted with two cement sneakers that have anchored your scope in this little sphere by the shore which you claim you will never escape and that the ever ceaseless chiding monotone in the space between your ears and below your crest furiously feeds it's own fire with every failed endeavor—

I am against the ocean, observing a dog panting in a parked car like a forgotten grandparent. He watches me guilty and unsure why while his life dances at the picnic tables nearby. Everything is an illusion. Beyond you is The Nothing. When you are quiet, when you forget who you are, when you are quiet, when you chuck off the sad shambles of baggage hanging on your shoulder, when you are quiet—you are the nothing. Perfection is the void, devoid of all, without good we cannot conceive of bad.

Analysis

Sitting here, thinking about it (instead of finishing up my workshop story), I think the previous post illustrates an example of my greatest insecurity as a writer: purpose.

It's really hard to justify majoring in creative writing to myself sometimes, particularly with a workshop coming up and nothing new (good) to show for it. 

I could be studying history and political science like a good little pre-law student. That would certainly be the more promisingly lucrative option. But there is something refreshing about English and writing. 

It seems like a hipster thing to say but I feel like I'm not selling out by sticking to my creative passion instead of my intellectual passion. 

But I guess that's not really a bad thing. 

On a not necessarily unrelated not, I fucking love this song

Art of the Craft

The writer is eternally observant, lost in a cloud of mental notes and sound-clips—files preserved for that masterpiece that's just beyond comprehension right now. Dry-humping the notion that creativity is a spring-time song-bird with fickle tastes. That she delivers the goods only with a formula of equal parts precision and luck.

Lies.

All that time on the sidelines, watching other people's lives unfold in an effort to better relate to the human animal—as if the knowledge might somehow improve perspective.

The mind is a formidable opponent. Polymers of phrase-speak that play like radio commercials in grid-lock traffic, white-washing the internal space. Bright flashes of inspiration that tease the edges of the tip of your mind's tongue.

Doubt is the lovely confidant to your left. All opportunities for reminding you of her presence are taken.

Pride? Destructible. Words do not spare clarity. Honesty is currency in a system controlled by fiction.

The words roll out—analysis and comprehension of EVERYTHING YOU SEE AND HEAR.

Overload, constantly. Must learn to seek solitude—recharge. Perhaps learn to enjoy what has been compared to vomiting on a page.

Sometimes, there is the delusion that this is just about telling a story. That entertainment is the de-facto end game. 

And then I realize that this process is thousands of years old and that I'm no different from the large foreheaded ancestor in a damp cave, using crushed berries to illustrate the hunt. 

Look at what I did! Look at what I can do! You've gotta hear about the size of that fish!

We grope for realism by mining the dark places of our experience. To paraphrase Tolkien, sometimes we mine too greedy. Sometimes we mine too deep. There be monsters.

Giant, distorted beasts of things that once were--our perception stunted at this level like a failing torch in that humid cave air.  

Sometimes I think: being a writer is too painful. Too much soul on the palette to share with others. Too much time is wasted internally--observing, analyzing, filing for later. To what end? 

To entertain? To show off? To make a connection? Or to purge all that shit onto something examinable? 

So much win

It's a little long, sure. But honestly, on some real levels--this looks better than the original.
Leonardo DiCaprio. Bill Paxton. John Cusack. Jennifer Connelly. Jamie Lee Curtis. The guy from Full Metal Jacket!

TWO THE SURFACE