inreaction

let’s write.

this is odd. my fingers are dancing nervously, my hand wet with anticipation. it’s been quite some time where i’ve sat to write, as opposed to sitting to think. a friend had an amalgamation of young musicians entitled “music is the art of thinking,” but clearly that need not be true. literary pursuits are much more educational than aural ones (or oral ones even). writing in itself is a thoughtful process.

that’s not true. i remember when i first started writing. it wasn’t when i wrote a poem in first grade, or completed an anthology in third grade to the formal agreements of my teacher. it was when i thought i needed someone, picked up a speckled “composition” notebook and sat for three hours writing 20 upon 20’s of pages. eventually, i grew tired and slept, but that notebook never stayed far from me. it followed me to europe, where it met it’s tragic end with a bag of forgotten, fermented cherries in the bottom of my worldly backpack. it smelled of wine but alcohol had not wet my lips yet, so i rewrote the notebook, in a sterile, spiral version that now looks so foolish. but then again, what boy doesn’t look foolish when pursuing any sense of “art” these days?

i used to use quiet music to spark literary endeavors, but today this feels far too artificial. give me bass lines and irreverence, i don’t need to listen to poetry when i’m writing such brash, unstyled lines. style isn’t even present, my polish has worn out, grown toxic and been put away–it’s not time for metaphor because i’ve been here before, not time for simile because poetry just isn’t what i mean to be anymore. it’s just not me.

i can’t check my meter and cross out iambs and replace them with trochees, your knees are scarred but you’re not scared. your eyes are bright with light but they are evaded by any sense of sight–you can’t see what you want to be because you’re afraid of being me. when there’s nothing left in you what do you expect? everything is suspect when you’ve lost respect–for yourself. lyricism, litotes, understatement, make a statement–add movement so they stick with the words and don’t stray from the page so you can supplant your rage with big words so they can fancy you a sage–wage your words against their worlds, drop out of form once in awhile to catch one’s attention…right?

certainly this is funner than realer, probably more smiler than crier. but isn’t that always the case? listen to {read a book} not {no lies just love} because a smile goes down much easier than a tear–leaves no marks and requires the same level of face-scrunching.

tell me what you think. why don’t we hold hands by the rink while sipping on iced adios while skating away from our goodbye? why don’t we forget what it’s like to live and do you fancy a swyve? let’s buy some land, let’s raise our kids, let’s brush our goddamn death night after night because the dentist says it’s right, right? when’s the last time we drove around and took every left without worrying about what was right? when’s the last time the breeze was salty, when was the last time it made your father’s salt-and-pepper hair fly in patterns most unfitting an old man? fuck questions.

imperatives are far more engimatic. do work. smoke this. lighten up. fall down. get lost. find yourself. turn right. write now.
but why not be exclamatory. do work! smoke this! lighten up! get lost!

tell me where the bank is that can bring me back from where my talent has sanken. tell me where to test the best and compare them to the rest of them–don’t they all want to be on screen?

ever feel as though you’ve read a mass of words but amassed no knowledge? ever feel like your lips touched but you never kissed? me neither. but really, just because you read doesn’t mean you paid attention, doesn’t mean you couldn’t get lost in the circles and just come out at the end of it, find yourself cornered by the circular logic. where were we?

writer’s block: 0.
bullshit: 1.