I Used to be a Writer

I've walked this ground for a while now
So yesterday I laid me down
And I looked up into the big ol' sky
And searched for our father's big blue eyes

Figured I'd give him another shot
Since I haven't heard much from him lately
Goddamn if he didn't look right down at me
Those eyes as empty as eyes could be

Let me inside your brain. Not all the time, only when you're reading something I wrote. Specifically, lyrics. I want to test a theory that lyrics lose their impact without music. Lyrics are not to be confused with poetry. Poetry has a different flow than lyrics. Poetry is written to be read, leaving the reader to provide his or her own emphasis and inflection, whereas lyrics are written to be heard with specific inflection, tone, and emphasis provided by the singer.

Consider the lyrics to a song I wrote a few years back:

"Devil's Net"

This blood flows cold
Through veins of steel
In these eyes
Burns the face of death
Lucifer

This mouth
Preaches words of doom
And these hands
Will steal the life out of all
Who stand before them

Short and sweet, no? But the impact is all but lost without the music, inflection, and tone to back it up. If not lost, definitely changed.

My point? I want what I write to impact whoever reads it. I want to impart what I feel. I suppose that's the point of any type of art. Unless you're just trying to show off.

One Day

I have seven published blogs so far and six that I have either scrapped or not finished, but saved as drafts. Some are too negative, some are too personal (and maybe too negative), a couple either suck or didn't interest me enough to finish/publish. I'm guessing that eventually I'll have more unpublished drafts than published blogs. Perhaps I will then publish them all in a collective essay titled "Crap: A Retrospective" (a title I stole from Beavis, slightly altered and not as literal).

In Tow

Born head first
With one foot out the door
The writing on the wall
Reflects upon the cracked wood floor
Thinking backwards
Realize that it's O.K.
You could turn back the clock
These things would happen anyway

To obsess over what I possess
Just leaves me distressed
And feeling oppressed
And a little depressed
But I'm sure you could guess
That just having less
Reduces the stress.

Sketchoes

Gonna start posting drawings and sketches. Okay, doodles. Some drawn with my feet, some with only my mind. You figure it out!!

Oh, so profound!

This is where I live.

You can't come in.

A Walk

There's a path in the woods that a lot of people know about, but not a lot of people travel. I used to walk it all the time when I was a kid and I've been revisiting it a lot since I came back to MA. I went there late today to find something. As I started along the path the sun was going down. I knew it would get very dark very soon, but I kept going. I started to think about the past year and a half or so. About the people I've seen, associated with, been close to, fell away from, disassociated with, pissed off, alienated, hurt, been hurt by. I pretty much covered all of them. The sun was disappearing quickly. I could see rays of light through the trees. The dead leaves looked like stained glass in front of the setting sun. I heard echoes of voices that had spoken to me over the past year and a half or so. Statements and questions, lies and truths, compliments and insults. I resurrected feelings of disappointment, regret, fear, happiness, anger, sadness, excitement, joy, anxiety, pain, pleasure, calm, love, hate, distaste, jealousy. I kept walking and the light kept fading. The limbs of the trees started to look like arms trying to reach out and grab me. If one of them had, I would have let it. It was getting very cold. Just before the last of the light faded I found what I was looking for. A box. I lifted it but did not open it. It was heavier than it looked. I reached into the right pocket of my jacket and took out the matches and the lighter fluid I had taken from my house. I dug a small hole in the dirt, placed the box into the hole and emptied the lighter fluid onto the box. I stood up and looked at the box for a moment. I let out a sigh, lit the book of matches and dropped it into the hole. There was a whooshing sound as the box ignited. I watched it burn, basking in the light and feeling the warmth of the flames. I stood in the sphere of light, a bright spot in the darkness. The fire burned down and eventually went out. I covered the ashes and filled the hole with dirt. It was completely dark, quiet and cold. I turned and walked back down the path, enjoying a pleasant sense of calm.

Pretentious Observations From a Stool

I went to a room yesterday and it was full of humans. The room was in a building. When I entered the building, I was in the room. There was a counter to sit at and a floor to stand on. There were humans behind the counter and others in front of it. I sat at the counter and I drank from a cup that was given to me by one of the humans behind the counter. I stared ahead and surveyed the beings in the room. As I stared, I continued to drink the contents of my cup. I thought it strange, this gathering. I was surrounded by beings similar to myself, yet I felt no different than before, when I was the only being, in another room. A common sentiment, I suppose.

Scape

I wandered and I found a place to lay
Over a baby buried in an angel's grave
I closed my eyes, the baby had my face
And as my life slipped by I slept the time away

I flew just like the winter crows tonight
I smelled the devil in my wings, the snow fell in my eyes
The sky was a metallic blue, with no moon in sight
In a crimson dream of evil deeds, I escaped to avoid the light

Opening Day at the Cerebral Farm

This is the beginning. Try not to screw it up.