The pages lay strewn around the room like fallen leaves, some ripped, some in tact, others crumpled and coffee stained like rings on a tree stump, of which you could count to decipher the age of the words. The thoughts and meanings, scattered and confused but like anything, I suppose, come together in purpose at some time or another. And what do you do? Oh me? I'm a writer; a title that surely sounds impressive and artsy, or even dark in the eye of the beholder, but in such a title the only clarity is true confusion, and the proof is lying all over my bedroom.
In such an atmosphere of confusion, the pages mingling around the room in no particularly organized fashion, remind me of the endless parties of the Hollywood Hills in which I, at one time, fretted as painfully normal. A world now so far away from what is my norm, I can not understand, or even relate to, the simplicity of it all. The routine of Fiji water bottles, German cars, and Sunset Boulevard as a lifestyle, is what much of the world may aspire to, or even utilize as a means of entertaining the imagination. Meanwhile, the other side of the rubix cube is similar to the opposite, because problems are problems, and the routine in which we live is just that. A routine.
It has been said that the aphrodisiac of the writer is melancholy, but to truly understand this idea, is to understand the cycle of freedom seekers. All of the greatest talents from Robert Frost to Jim Morrison could relate to such a statement, and to even consider myself as a comparison would be blasphemous, but what I do know, is that all ended in a glorious failure of fame, indeed a glory I could do without. I can relate to the frustration where one reaches a point that a shot of even the strongest drink provides you with not a head buzz or sense of calm, but nothing more than acid fuck reflux.
Although depressed as I might seem, I am in fact quite the opposite. The prospects of routine simplicity are distracting and daunting as the most precarious of tasks, and I know without a doubt, that routine simplicity and its counterpart are potentially equally precarious. Cynical? Very, but with good reason, and all one really has to do is turn on one of those evangelical channels and observe the fact that there really are people who believe that if they do not abide by the rules of a book written 2000 years ago, they will undoubtedly so, burn in an eternal hell fire. All 30,000 people in that auditorium surely look happy, but I think if I were in such a scenario I would be praying to be saved too. If I am to speak in tongues, I need hallucinogenic drugs, or a very good reason of which I can not think necessary in any situation I've yet to experience. Oh, and you can buy the DVD of the sermon you've just watched for $39.99, and they're fucking serious.
I take several of the loose leaved pages from around the room and organize about 20 different thoughts in some sort of order, hole punch them, and place them carefully into a binder. Surprisingly, as I scan through what I have written I realize that the thoughts do in fact make sense, to me at least, and the reflection alone is rehabilitating, and whether or not I realize it, a story is taking form. Am I just being complacent to my own desire, or is there in fact something to make of this? At the moment, as of many moments lately, I think to ask the first person of whom I've been thinking. I open a word document and organize the pages identically to the hard copy and attach them to the email.
Hey,
they say that the more opinions you ask for, the more you get, and at the moment, I really only want one. Comments?
I type in the email address I had saved on a napkin, leave the subject blank, think twice carefully reading over my short message, and click send.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
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