Trying to be Creative Again

I'm trying to regain/maintain the creative streak I used to possess as a kid. I feel that the older I get, the more distracted I become by reality. I don't want that to happen. I jotted this down tonight without editing it or having much of an idea for a plot. I've decided random stream of consciousness writing might be the trick to stimulating my creative juices. Here is said jot (slightly edited):

He sat in the wooden rocking chair by the door. A few days may have gone by since he last stood. Not sure. His windows had been blacked out with spray paint, all clocks unplugged. No calendars, no phones, TV, radio. Completely shut off from the outside world. The wooden chair rocked slowly back and forth on the wooden floor, creaking and groaning. The arms had nicks and gouges where his fingers hand been picking and gnawing when he first sat down. He stared at his bed a few feet in front of him, dimly lit by the single hanging bulb that occasionally flickered and buzzed. He had no thoughts. He hadn't felt tired or hungry or bored. The steam heater spat and hissed. It might be day. His internal clock, slowly shutting down and forgetting, told him it might be day. No matter. He started to nod. Not falling asleep but fading away. Finally nearing the end. He vaguely wondered how long he would be in his dim yellow room before anyone discovered him. Again, no matter.

I'm Raising My Eyebrow in Thought

This weekend was filled with triumph and tragedy. So much so that it tires me to even think about attempting to recount it all. Suffice it to say, I'm exhausted on every level and I just want to be completely free of any obligations for the next 48 hours but the world won't let me... and so I trudge on. But I could really use a hug.

$10,000 down, another $15,000 when the job is done

In the past, people have told me that I have an intense aura about me. I've also been called unapproachable, even intimidating (the latter seems completely unfounded as far as I can tell).
Well, we can now add cold blooded to that list. At school people have been joking about contracting me to do "dirty deeds" (not done dirt cheap). I asked my teacher where all this was coming from and came to find out that I have that callous, kind of intimidating look and somebody else in the class threw out the descriptor "cold blooded". I have been sporting a beard for the about a month now and I have an old, longish leather jacket that most likely perpetuates the look. My good friend Mike said I look like a car jacker the other day. To a lesser extreme, I've also been called a mountain man.

And I'm completely digging it.

Time, I Guess.

If I had become comatose six months ago and I woke up next August on my birthday, I would most likely not realize that it was my birthday and, upon finding out that it was my birthday, I would think I was turning 27 rather than 28. What would this mean to me? I don't know.

The year on the calendar today has changed from what it was yesterday by one digit. The 8 has turned into a 9. 364 days from now, the 9 will become a 0 and the 0 preceding that will become a 1. Phenomenal.

Now for your job. Figure out the point of this post and get back to me. Please.

Thank you.

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).