good morning beautiful

what i like to think it looks like inside my mind

So here I am each morning, agonising and self reflective as only a true tortured artist can be. I write about the rain parched, desolate terrain of the artistic temperament. In the hope that normal people, unburdened by my lofty aspirations, can at least get a glimmer of what they, poor two dimensional people, could never hope to encounter in their dull, ordinary, lives.

While I do this, the machinery of mind whirrs and rumbles in the background. There is a constant nagging undertone which gnaws and eats away at my wonderful inspired ideas. It gnaws away in, I would like to say, ever more inventive and destructive ways. But if the truth be told, and it irks me to say this, it seems that I am quite more simple, far easier to waylay, than I would like you to think.

what it actually looks like in my mind

This is an ego double whammy- I am offended that it doesn't have to go to any great lengths, be creative, inventive, even particularly interested, to think up new and cunning strategies to thwart me. And it is just this self obsessed introspection that is the precise indicator of my thralldom to the not-so-subtle machinations of the ancient adversary.

Always an over achiever at under achieving, I do not just swallow the hook, line and sinker. I take the rod and most of the anglers arm too and gulp it back deeply and blindly. It usually will take a while to extricate this mess of metal, nylon, carbon fibre, bone and gristle, and an assortment of other nasty little things.

And there is the clue there to the purpose of such awful habits. Time is spent in efforts to solve these problems, which pile up and become astonishingly difficult to solve. Time can be spent, energy expended, life wasted, regrets amassed, filed and later pored and picked over, nursed and fed.
This too takes time (to do it right).

Reading this back I am laughing at myself, my art, my pretension, my preciousness.

Who really gives a shit?

take up your bed and walk

 

I have waited so long for the perfect piece to come along. It irks me that it is still yet 'to arise'. Lately it seems to be further away than ever. In the cold daybreak light, it is blatantly obvious that if I don't write, then no great piece of writing will appear, but as obvious as it is, it is the last thing to occur to me.

So, obviously, I don't write. I find it more instructive to berate myself for not doing so. When I do write I turn out crap like this. I read it, criticise it, deconstruct it, edit it. Then I delete it. I start posts, select stunning pictures to grace the crumbs of profundity, which I intend to scatter among my wisdom starved and utterly grateful followers.

I notice with dismay my conceit, my arrogance. Of course I dispatch myself with short shrift, with the utter contempt such pretensions warrant. It is the very least I can do, as an even minded and dispassionate observer, a lover of the written word (when correctly executed, you understand).

Enough about the incessant, inane, internal chatter, that mumbles behind my creative bent.

Does every piece of writing have to involve this torturous birth process, this forming and squeezing out of things that seem too large to come through? Do they have to pop out and look at you as if there was no effort on your part, as if to say... "look at me! aren't you overjoyed to see me, and wasn't that a breeze?"

And let's put to one side, for now, the relative ugliness or unworthiness of what eventually does emerge. If my children are thought to be less handsome, more stunted, misspelt, ill considered, uncouth, or more asinine, less sensible, or weirder than the children of others, are misconstrued, misunderstood, don't mix well with others, should I love them any less?

Probably. In all good conscience, not. If the truth be told, they too deserve to live.