I’ve been wondering lately if I was right when deciding to be a writer and back when I started I didnt have any doubts, I only believed in myself, and so there’s no point of backing down now because I’ve never been a bluffing man, always all in, and I don’t do spoken word very often but I’m getting ready to get some guts and wander and tour my writing again, so I thought I should give it some practice. I had to whisper to not wake anybody up… (words after recording):
So I got home
and checked my email and my old friend who is an old kind of hippy, a guy who introduced me to Saint Clair one time when I was in the D, and well like he said cheer up man don’t be such a loathing writer man, and well like my friend said, I can write where I’m going. I can write where they’re going. I just have to regain my focus, my words, my tongue, my ghosts, all that is buried somewhere inside of my vocabulary that can slow down, slow-slow-slow; slowly moving like a reporter at a drug deal, a low down and dark get down kinda scene that he kinda well just kinda hopes will go bad, go bad go sour go south, get kinda bloody just for some spark.
Write like a machine gun. A T-Rex. An old man. A wise but curious and spontaneous old man. Describe what you see, take your time and get back to what you were onto. Sketch life, sketch tables and headphones and the strings that they are attached to. Talk about the colors and the patterns and the intersecting lines that are slouched over a chair which really is an old Levi Shirt with lines of blue and red and white paneling going down the sleeves.
Talking about what you see and get back to the basics. Practice doesn’t make perfect but it makes you a citizen of the property of thee states. It brings you back to what you see, what you love, what you read and what you feel safe doing. This is what THIS is for. THIS is just practice.
You have to get the story and the words that are always slowly bringing you back down to who you are. Better typing and more words per second. Bother not brother man. Be a Master of time. A master and a slave and a god and the nonexistent stuff that only exists in your mind. Be all of this to not one man and woman but to all men women and neither dead nor alive ghosts and goblins.
Be Satan. Be the space that makes up everything that could be, be god and nothing but even more so be the space that could never be. You have to go and make that keyboard a part of you again and it’s really only a long spontaneous tale to the man that you are. You have to walk in circles, in triangles, in three dimensional superstitious doodles drafted by the mental, created by the ancient demons of society that wish to be born of wild angels. You have to wash the nicotine stains off of your cold hands. You have to wash your feet. You have to shake it up and never stop the goodness. You can’t hesitate. You can’t wait for the words and you can close your eyes, but your fingers are moving faster and this is proactive. The keys get bigger. Your eyes are a magnifying clock, and the hands of time can’t slow you down. Every word that you ever wanted to speak and translate inside of your mind is going to possibly manifest and into technology you create wonderful made up full truths, always in past tense.
Type slow and look at the tic-tac-board on the wall that is the heater and the fan that waits for the summer just like you and just be them, be American, Be an alien, Be a MOON MAN, Just be you.
Like that old hippie said, just don’t think, Just read and write and write and read. Be that crazy writer. Be that guy that went to county. Be that person. That person that believed he was onto something when he stayed up all night in a holding cell and scribbled for seventeen straight hours on toilet paper.
Just be. Be everything. Be nothing. Be…