i’m nostalgic for my mid-20s. and i’m only almost 32. there is something to be said about that. (what a generic fuckin genre trope of a phrase. there is something to be said about everything, no matter how banal.)
Wilco Chastain Park pouring rain entire show / double date in front of me all sat down when the band left the stage at the end of the set, each lit up their own individual j, they slowly smoked their individual j’s, staring straight ahead, kids in front on the side and behind
He woke up, drank some coffee, and immediately began. The juices or whatever they are flowed and he caused trouble and generally acted as an annoyance. Frankly it was the only thing that he knew how to do. It was his thing.
A starter’s pistol in the hands of an arrested 31-year-old. Developed arrestment, that is. The days are almost at their fewest. Two more nights counting this, which makes time short and funny-feeling. It is a very good funny, in case you were wondering.
"That’s my thing. My thing that I do. That I spend the majority of my time here doing." The unconscious inclusion of ‘here’ presupposes the existence of an elsewhere, of which there exists no certain knowledge. Stay the course then, but play the odds that this it. It would be absolutely ridiculous not to. There is an argument for a wasted 9 years. Though that depends on one’s definition of ‘wasted’. And you see, the argument falls in on itself in an intractable heap of sorrowness. The depressing strings gain sound, becoming louder and happier than any normal Tuesday evening.
A litany of open doors and literally no doors closed. I invite more and more to the shindig without the slightest concern for capacity. I then ruminate about the process after it is far too late, and I continue again, acting as if cognition never occurred. A filthy cycle.
The king of non-sequitors strolled down the hallway of lascivious charms, batting an eyelash here and waving a pinky there, all in service of the greater great, which coincidentally is better than the greater good. footnote 1 He swaddled through the tight spaces, made so by post-modern paintings the size of an average American hallway. The post-modernity of the art was a gripping thing to behold. I wish I had a longer span. Goodness, it would make things so much easier. The test is scientific in nature. I even used the method to investigate the phenomenon. It does not work as well as one would hope, for there are too many unknown factors. That is the Achilles’s heel of the entire enterprise: the vastness of the unknowns.
footnote 1 I had my fact checkers fact check it and everything. They have notes.
There it is. A communal experience strikes again. That’s what the headlines would read at least. I watch as the interruptions get louder and louder, and one can’t help but notice them and then inevitably engage with them, in a pseudo-epic battle, one that would make the hipsters stop and watch for 24 hours of their existence, until they moved on to something new of course. I keep stopping myself because I descend into cliche too easily. Again, something that comes with time. Time. Albatross. Back. There should be no other things to read. You should only read the LJ text. But continue to write, day in and day out. And for all that is holy in the life of a street vendor, be good.
I refuse to digress into music criticism. It is a slippery slope and no one ends up happy or satiated. I will continue on a path of nonsense for a while longer, until I find a “voice” (which is importantly in quotation marks because I am on the far-end of the self-awareness continuum, 99th percentile easily). I try to dissociate but, again, the knowledge of self consumes my every experience and behavior, down to thinking about thinking about thinking about writing. And seeing where that leads. What roads it opens up and what doors it closes, in a neverending haze of self-loathing selfy self selferson. Solipsism binds us. Now did Foster Wallace write that or did some NPR employee pithily break down his entire oeuvre in a way that even a D-III student can understand after they have taken English II? Perhaps I will choose the third person and just report on the proceedings with my own unique, learned take, impressing the semi-educated and pandering to the medium-well. The well would not buy one ounce of this tea-induced Kerouac wanna-be-ing. But at least let me do it. And press Create post and write another 200 or so words that come into my mind, some in order, others completely unaware of their own birthplace. They just arrive.
I will say that asking creativity out on a date has proved worthwhile, inasmuchas it has. Sometimes the words come easily and other times they are strained, a forcing out process being the best way to describe it. But the pattern has been nice. What, 11 out of 16? Not too bad at all. I very much need to proceed in a new direction soon. I don’t need to wed a voice or angle, I just need to do one all of the way through, maybe for five days. Stories beget stories beget better ones until you might have something good. Or maybe you’ll find out it is terrible. Either way, you’ll be told something and that is what is most important.