It's a bummer that I get my creative desires as soon as my body blows out its night stand candle. I want to stay up late, listen to Death Cab for Cutie, read Kerouac and Joyce, play my guitar, and just be hip. But my eyelids are heavy and all I can think about is how much sleep I'll get if I go to bed right now. Seriously, if I go to bed right now I'll get six hours and 40 minutes. I just want to say forget it, I don't need you, Mr. Sleep. You're like Chinese food. I think I've had enough, but then I'm tired an hour later.
I love to ponder (yes, ponder is the perfect word) about where my friends are right now. RDT is in Idaho, surrounded by beautiful pieces of art, many of which he has created. Eric Peterson is in Kansas City..."it's just a 1, 2, 3,4...5,6,7,8,9!" Krshul's in Vegas. So are Mr. and Mrs. Mark Hutchings and the Dunsmoors. Cindy Morgan's an L.A. Woman. Mad Dog and Lisa are in NYC. We're in CR, CO. And we're all connected by my thoughts, as if they are a physical entity, keeping us together like a spider web of love and concern.
There's wars and bombs and train derailments and heart attacks and strokes and guns and slaps and fear and screams, right along side the laughter and beauty and success and freedom and hope, and it's all together happening right now. Sometimes I'm focused on one side, sometimes the other. It's times like this that they are equal in my mind, and I feel a balance, I feel like everything's going to be fine.
I hope to one day write. Chanel told me she thinks I hate to write, and I told her she was right. I do hate to write. It's the hardest thing in the world for me to do. There are so many people who do it so wonderfully. Like Keith Bearden, whose influence on my writing was instrumental in my creative writing attempts in high school, Dylan Todd, who can write with such clarity and beauty and hipness without seeming to even try, and the greats like Kerouac, Dos Passos, Fitzgerald ("blue as the sky, boys") and Saroyan. When I write I think of them, and I want to be as good as them, and when I'm not I want to curl up in the corner and fall asleep, give it all up and get a factory job and just forget about everything. I really need some sort of motivation, but life is too good. I can't write when I'm happy, and I've never, ever been happier. So, what I'm saying is, I want to write, but I'd rather be happy than published.
You were probably startled that my blog had been updated. Hopefully the next one won't be written months from now.
Sporatic thoughts intertwined with photos and comments from truly excellent folks.
1 comment:
Rydiggity - First off, you rule. So glad to see the lights on inside the old Castelrocker homestead. I've been driving by slowly every night for the last few weeks and have been sad to see that noone was home there for a while. It's good to have you back in the neighborhood.
Secondly, you're a great friend and an examplary human being. It's hard to believe that 10+ years ago we became such fast friends in a Chaparral High guitar class and that here we are, years and miles later, hanging on to each other through the ether.
Thirdly - and here's the part where I get a little preachy and hypocritical - when it comes to creative endeavors, you've got to just do it. Even if it sucks or even if it makes no sense or even if noone ever sees it ever. The art is in the doing of it, not in the agonizing over it. The thing gets easier with practice.
Fourthly, I like ice cream. It is delicious. Also, chicken wings. But not at the same time. That's just nonsense talk.
Finally, keep the posts coming. It's always good to hear your voice in zeroes and ones. You're a champ. - rdt
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