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Kumu, baby Timmy not like Evil Charity! (9-1) yard. See, I thought it was about opportunity -- about time I didn't have, moments that I couldn't unchain from the other. And then it was about prestige. All the shadows of glitter and the suppositions of f-boys and girls that somehow weren't there anymore.
We waited how long for a bad brains tour?
And then the time was there. Full, without question. There was a bit of guilt, but there was a highway of opportunity all in front of me, and I was sitting there in a Ferrari, of all things, with my hands on the key. and I just sat there, like I always do, saying to myself... "Christ, this seat is riding up my ass." And I read the old words, some I haven't even looked at in a year, and I wondered about the changes. How 30 pounds off suddenly felt like 40 back on, how a mid-fall hot streak turned cold. How a place I had decided to leave twice before kicked me out. How seeing a little mirror of myself became a regression into seeing only the tunnel of responsibility -- sometimes driving straight down the middle, sometimes trying like hell to break through the walls just to prove that I was able to do so. I stopped journaling a while back, choosing instead to let the words come out in varying arrays, different fashions, characters with plastic names, and metaphor. I let the world affect me, and then I put it on a paint brush which I gleefully pushed around the muslin. I think some very good stuff has come out. And, I felt a certain pride in no longer possessing a journal that just expressed "what I did at school today" and how the weather was. But now I read back into my life, and I find that for the first time in a long time, I have left holes. Large spaces where the history is there in the metaphors, but only in short sparks. I always intended this to be a place for me to write, whatever that meant for me at the time. Sometimes it came out with a wry smile, a shuddered memory, flights of fancy, or perhaps a step in a new direction. But for a long time, it came out in journal entries. Remembrances, recallings, examinations of my life as it happened to me. I think I evolved away from it, and I don't think that I regret it. Some of my best writing has come to life here, and some of the writing that I have yet to unleash on the world is because of the conditioning that this place has provided. But in a sappy sentimental way, I really wish I could look back and see what I was doing a couple of Thursdays ago. Now it all seems blurry. People have done this for a lot longer than I have, and many of them do a much better job, updating every day, pulling emotion and feeling out in each entry... as I look back on it I think some spark has eroded. Not all of it, mind you. No farewell letters here. I can't see how I could ever stop doing this. Ever let it go. But like the relationships that lasted, it's changed. Evolved. Progressed. Something like that. I used to go for it every day, finding new places to touch, new angles to explore, and there was a thrill in just doing it. Then there was a move towards depth, quality, endurance. and then, there was just a natural progression into wanting to write in here all the time, and thinking about writing here all the time, but just not having time to fit it in. I was comfortable with the pace of the work, able to accept nights that went by without an upload. Of course, I wanted to write more, but somehow I have gotten to where each word had to mean something, every entry had to be important, perfect, memorable. So when the mood wasn't right, I wouldn't strip down the language, and search for the words. And sometimes when the mood was good, I was too goal oriented, too eager -- and it was over before I wanted it to be. Perhaps I am hitting a mid journal crisis perhaps I am thirsting for a red sports car and a young nubile set of colors to make me feel important again. I let some things go, thinking I had the convenience to do so, and now I miss them. Journal Propecia. This collection of stories and writings is almost 4 years old. Do you realize what that is in journal years?
So there's hesitation again. Hesitation over how the words look. How the feeling sounds. What you people might think when you see them. Like Old Papa Bear trying to get it back up for another Farewell to Arms. and yet, I have no intention of talking as closely with a Remington like he did.
and I could listen to it over, and over, and over and over, again.
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