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.
