In that at one point, I believe that I really did have a voice, an actual artistic voice. I would sit and the words would pour out of me, and sometimes I found a rhythm and a nature to them that made every bit of sense, and sometimes it was senseless but syllabic poetry. I really believe that.
Maybe that's not the case, in reality. Since then, though, I have lost a lot of my capability as a writer. I'm out of practice with it. My stories hang half-formed in space, I get bored, they stop writing themselves, the world takes over and my interrupt-driven life finds something quicker to latch on to.
I don't feel it anymore. I used to find it like I used to find it making music, or with sex, or with driving a goddamn car, or with escapism of any of a million types. Hrm. Desensitized, maybe? Too much escape, with no real cause?
Because now I can't outrun the pace I live. I can't get out of bounds.
Just now, in fact, I was given a set of tasks that completely derailed my thinking. Where was I?
What a perfect ending that would be to this. Where was I? I was on things: drugs, drink, pain, corporate fraud, high on the falsely justified anger that comes with fooling yourself into victim status. Man, could I catch fire at the right set of words, at the right set of circumstances. The right Radiohead song coupled with a decent morning buzz. The right haze-filtered rising sun, that blood-red south Texas sky that only makes sense if you see it, and it's only here and parts of Africa.
I started a process, though, many years ago, probably wrote about it many times, a process to eradicate my egotistical nature, remove the I I I Me Me Me, You Are Interested In Me Because I am Me. See, it's tough to be in the same room as someone like that. I hate that kind of person. So I started striving to remove it from my language and my actions, remove that decayed thought.
I also stopped smoking pot a couple of years ago, and I stopped drinking myself to passing-out stage every night (stopped that a long while before the pain meds), and I stopped being in pain, so I stopped the pain meds, stopped the anti-depressants (prescribed when I was in dire pain, to help with my attitude), and now I have the following vices:
Spicy food. Food in general. Driving very aggressively. Maybe alcohol, but only because there's not much else.
The job changed. Laurea got her PhD. We're in a house now, in a medium-grade neighborhood. We have two dogs, two cars, and a motorcycle. And a hedgehog.
And I have a growing sense that the older I get, the less I am inclined to trust my past choices. Probably just a mid-life thing, maybe it's full-blown depression, who knows? But the short of it is, I no longer feel that fuel.
I can't write. I know it. You probably picked up on it. For me, reading my old stuff and my new stuff (the high-minded nonsense that I keep offline versus the high-minded stuff I kept online at places like k5) it's a sort of bizarre Algernon situation.
In my dreams, I bled out. I finally purged those demons (save one, and that one stays put). I made my voice ragged in this wind, made myself foolish in front of many thoughtful people, and finally now I'm sort of embarrassed, walking away from it.
Sort of. I don't really know, but I think the gist of it is: I wish I could write like I used to write, live like I used to live, and hurt like I used to hurt. Feel it in my bones. Have the phrases jump out of me rattling my jaw. Because the upside was extraordinary, that mindless timeless groove, that honey sweet river that I'd sink into, make the words make sense, find my rhythms.
Maybe I can still, I really don't know. You may know more, older or younger than I am maybe you have some insight into my fatal thinking.
It is telling, though, that most of my longest most thought out bits here at HuSi have been along these lines, along the lines of what I lost and where, and how I'll try to write, try to find my voice. But it came by accident, and now is gone.
|< Insert Interesting Title Here | BBC White season: 'Rivers of Blood' >|