In early December I was sitting in a coffee shop in my childhood friend's little Chelsea neighborhood with Neil and we were amping ourselves up to be epic soon, we were telling each other all the right things. Things like how I need to focus more on the essayist that lives inside of me and how Neil needs to get off twitter and finish his damn screenplay.
I told him how my novel sucked but then I would look out the dirty window and tell him it may be pretty good but it will never get edited. He told me about his screenplay while sipping tea and I could kinda see it in my head. And this is a good thing. He was a bit manic and I was a bit gloomy. We were wishy washy in our writer spine ways.
I think all the talking just talked us back into a circle.
We turned around and had ended the conversation just where it began.
Change. We need it. Writing. We crave it.
We are just unsure.
We are just angst ridden writers.
We are different.
We are different.
We are so the fucking same as everyone else.
It sucks to be a writer. If I were a singer and good at it I could just sing out loud to people in the market or on the street. They would tell me I was good and I would walk away with a smile and a secret little pop to my step. A swagger. A bounce. I could know that I was good at singing. I feel beat down sometimes because if I were a singer I could make you hear me. I feel like I am talking to myself on here but I know it is good practice for me. It matters. It is time frozen. It is a memory.
I just want long hair and a small house with endless wooden floors and all of the people that I love inside of it dancing -but there would also be a small room for me where I would write poetry all day.
I would have a bed like Frank Lloyd Wright.
There was a divider in it. If Frankie was sleeping on the right he could be disturbed. It meant he was only resting or daydreaming or being lazy. You could come to him with art and dreams and wishes and problems. But if he were on the left side of the bed you could never touch him. You could never bother him. He was sleeping. He was in his small allotment of true sleep. Genius sleep. The darkest place you can climb down into and nestle. The place where we are only ever alone.
I would have a bed like that.
I tried to tell someone today how I feel crazy a lot of the time. She just told me not to worry about it. That I was a little crazy but how the crazy ones are the best. Like the sweetest oranges and the slowest kisses. I remembered this post I wrote about a year back and suddenly I felt fine. On 1/11/11 I felt fine. I shake my tiny fist at you 2011. I lift my shirt up at you and flash you. I laugh with my mouth so wide open that you can see my white childhood cavities. I make you want to be with me 2011.
I did drive across the United States one time. It was a very long drive.
I was with Julian Simpson from England and my friend Bryan. We had just been released from our shackles of Presbyterian church camp counselor servitude. It was August and someone that I loved had just died and it seemed like the thing to do. We drove from Chapin, South Carolina to Los Angeles and back home to Cowtown, Ohio. I was just thinking about how I hate to drive nowadays. How I am prone to panic and angst on long journeys in my adulthood. I am not sure when the little screw fell out and took me to a yucky place with driving, but it happened.
Back then I would roll down the windows and my long hair would slap my eyes and I would love it. I drove across Texas all night with Madonna and fast through the Nevada desert with Metallica where the sky hung low and purple. All around me were scenes from movies that had not yet been made and songs unsung. I think looking back- that trip was meant to be escapist for me in theory, but all the way as the tires spun round and round, I thought of how sad I was to go back home to a place that now was missing someone I truly took for granted.
I remember with my back against the sticky seat of the Toyota Corolla cultivating the uncanny mind sweeping thoughts that now take up most of my days- thoughts that it has to be easier for other people to get through this life. That not everyone can think this much and at this intensity all the time. That I was cursed with the internal equivalent of a mosh pit. That I just wanted to stop feeling so much. That the sun was somehow brighter on my face than anyone else in the car and if I opened up my mouth and told you the startling esoteric whispers that hid sneaky in my throat- you would laugh at me because that's what people do around me. They laugh. I think I learned in a startling catechism with myself that summer that I was indeed an artist -and not crazy. Well not crazy enough to do much anything about it.
I heard Metallica today and it did indeed jack my head up for thirty seconds or so as the day spread out before me and the kids were like beyond the fourth wall and I was back there and looking at the me that lives now. I waved at me and she waved back and it was like there was a little peace. And later in my minivan rolling down the main drag of my town I sunk low into my captain's chair and rolled the window down and shook my bob. I shook my hair and told the boys a little story about America.