Here I am the epitome of cliché
sitting in an East Village bohème-chic café
belly full of Momofuku and tongue acrid with the burnt bean of artist's dreams
cramped in a tight corner, lap top on my lap because that's where it was made to be, and comfort compromised with not a thought about it
not when we know what we want, are rapt in the process of manifesting.
Warm; good because it's grey-slap-your-cheeks cold out there,
and fiery on my insides, burning with a hunger to create and unleash
suppression might not be healthy
But here I am, battling back after months of attack,
approaching the writer who must be shrunk away in some corner,
cowering like a neglected child in a dark basement,
terrible but true [thanks SVU]
maybe some drama-inducing duct-tape strapped over her mouth
or hands bound to a chair of her own carving, cobbling
little toothpicks digging into her skin, mouths cleaned out of all meaning
Anyway, begging this writer to make herself heard again.
God damn day jobs.
What are they good for, really?
Ah roof, ah meal, ah some sense of stupid security
To hell with it
wait, wait -- let's not put the book before the horse
and anyway, some astrologer once told me something that's twisted my mind away from print publishing, personally
My mystic moon movements take to these nuances and believe... mind over matter but come now, does it matter if I don't mind?
I am the dreamer of the dream
Being dreamed by a dream beyond my wildest dreams,
Lord all mighty why won't you show yourself to me?
I really wanna see you, really wanna be with you
:: sorry, (not sorry) music break ::
Where was I?
Maybe it was the two days of sitting in an apartment, banging my brains against my skull against a desk working on the stuff of nightmares.
A kind of boring I cannot tolerate
machine I am not
So why do we do it to ourselves?
the narrative builds?
Well, stepped out and took a walk and the words started writing themselves on the clicks of suede boot heel (judge a wo &/or man by his shoes, don't be shy, you know it kinda matters) against the path to said cafe where I was, honest to God, planning to continue my brain-banging work
but you know what? TGIF
Thank God it's fuckday.
Approaching the muse with the seed of an idea, it's all you need
and some bravery to let it roll, to trust the thought to unfold you more and more and more --
Just some nice ornamentation to bring us to the head
crescendo
A build
just like in bed
just like in the movies,
songs
...takes some time to learn the flow
or maybe you're a straight-up animal and you already know, know you know, that is
If you only knew how much magic --
the level of magic that happens when you create, express, publish, ship.
It's crazy, I don't know if this is some Pavlovian conditioning
but --
this silly little white box - to-be-blog -
It excites me like no other. The ability to hit publish and call the magic forth
My potions are in thought and word
Some other people, like Rene Redzepi, find it in nature, in the alchemy of tongue and imagination.
What an inspiration,
Genius cannot be less than freakish sensitivity and deep, deep, desire, excitement, sourced within and aimed out at the world like a divinely-inspired fire hose of "can I show you how I see it?"
sitting in an East Village bohème-chic café
belly full of Momofuku and tongue acrid with the burnt bean of artist's dreams
cramped in a tight corner, lap top on my lap because that's where it was made to be, and comfort compromised with not a thought about it
not when we know what we want, are rapt in the process of manifesting.
Warm; good because it's grey-slap-your-cheeks cold out there,
and fiery on my insides, burning with a hunger to create and unleash
suppression might not be healthy
But here I am, battling back after months of attack,
approaching the writer who must be shrunk away in some corner,
cowering like a neglected child in a dark basement,
terrible but true [thanks SVU]
maybe some drama-inducing duct-tape strapped over her mouth
or hands bound to a chair of her own carving, cobbling
little toothpicks digging into her skin, mouths cleaned out of all meaning
Anyway, begging this writer to make herself heard again.
God damn day jobs.
What are they good for, really?
Ah roof, ah meal, ah some sense of stupid security
To hell with it
wait, wait -- let's not put the book before the horse
and anyway, some astrologer once told me something that's twisted my mind away from print publishing, personally
My mystic moon movements take to these nuances and believe... mind over matter but come now, does it matter if I don't mind?
I am the dreamer of the dream
Being dreamed by a dream beyond my wildest dreams,
Lord all mighty why won't you show yourself to me?
I really wanna see you, really wanna be with you
:: sorry, (not sorry) music break ::
Where was I?
Maybe it was the two days of sitting in an apartment, banging my brains against my skull against a desk working on the stuff of nightmares.
A kind of boring I cannot tolerate
machine I am not
So why do we do it to ourselves?
the narrative builds?
Well, stepped out and took a walk and the words started writing themselves on the clicks of suede boot heel (judge a wo &/or man by his shoes, don't be shy, you know it kinda matters) against the path to said cafe where I was, honest to God, planning to continue my brain-banging work
but you know what? TGIF
Thank God it's fuckday.
Approaching the muse with the seed of an idea, it's all you need
and some bravery to let it roll, to trust the thought to unfold you more and more and more --
Just some nice ornamentation to bring us to the head
crescendo
A build
just like in bed
just like in the movies,
songs
...takes some time to learn the flow
or maybe you're a straight-up animal and you already know, know you know, that is
If you only knew how much magic --
the level of magic that happens when you create, express, publish, ship.
It's crazy, I don't know if this is some Pavlovian conditioning
but --
this silly little white box - to-be-blog -
It excites me like no other. The ability to hit publish and call the magic forth
My potions are in thought and word
Some other people, like Rene Redzepi, find it in nature, in the alchemy of tongue and imagination.
What an inspiration,
Genius cannot be less than freakish sensitivity and deep, deep, desire, excitement, sourced within and aimed out at the world like a divinely-inspired fire hose of "can I show you how I see it?"
Putting out the flames of delusion
I'm like a man desperate for some flesh after being locked away for some misdemeanor crime.
I'm like a housewife who imagined the wrong dream and got what she wanted, hanging over empty trivialities, knocking over and over with the hopes that what she needs but doesn't know of answers.
Fuck the shiny manicures, leather bags and walk-in closets, toss aside the bottle of 4pm Pinot Greej and empty bed, heart, head
Time to come home to your baby and get what you've been missing so long
And then it shows up on your door, virtually, unexpected and the riptide sweeps you off your feet and you say hell yes, I'm letting go
And you run away
Run on the words
Run on the grass
on the fragrances and subtle and smack of it in your face, slammed into the surf,
blood coursing better than the little games you make up to play,
Pulling your clothes off the shelf, a bag you don't even think you'll need, getting its fill of the past, just as security, a memento so you know just where you're coming from
though some part of you can see, through the crack, the opening of rage-in-action,
you can see the future holds all you'll need, and the present is broad and spacious enough to let you not give a --
I'm like a man desperate for some flesh after being locked away for some misdemeanor crime.
I'm like a housewife who imagined the wrong dream and got what she wanted, hanging over empty trivialities, knocking over and over with the hopes that what she needs but doesn't know of answers.
Fuck the shiny manicures, leather bags and walk-in closets, toss aside the bottle of 4pm Pinot Greej and empty bed, heart, head
Time to come home to your baby and get what you've been missing so long
And then it shows up on your door, virtually, unexpected and the riptide sweeps you off your feet and you say hell yes, I'm letting go
And you run away
Run on the words
Run on the grass
on the fragrances and subtle and smack of it in your face, slammed into the surf,
blood coursing better than the little games you make up to play,
Pulling your clothes off the shelf, a bag you don't even think you'll need, getting its fill of the past, just as security, a memento so you know just where you're coming from
though some part of you can see, through the crack, the opening of rage-in-action,
you can see the future holds all you'll need, and the present is broad and spacious enough to let you not give a --
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