When I write, I’m not aware in any kind of way of like, “Oh, this is a long song,” or, “This is movements.” If anything, I’m truly in awe of people who work in larger, scaled projects, someone who does sit down and write a symphony or an opera or a novel. I tend to live in a world of miniatures, so even my biggest work feels like a blink to me. It’s just a tiny little thing that comes and goes and floats away.
Definitely where my thinking has drifted over the last few years. Can remember being in music school as a composition major and envying songwriters because of the immediacy of their craft. Applying that to my own work now as I move forward in efforts at being honest with myself.
For longtime readers, you might remember an occasional writing about little Randy the chihuahua, the neighborhood watch commander whose favorite game for the last ten years has been chasing me down the road (and occasionally falling into snowdrifts) on the day's run and biting at my heels (I also named the asshole in my brain Randy in her honor) as I pass her house.
While Randy's still around (both corporeal and mental - though the latter iteration is FAR FAR FAR less overwhelming than before: it's nice to not hate myself all the time), she's been eight for a long time and is now going blind and not chasing me any more – though she did try: the other day she ran to the driveway when she heard me run past and barked and barked but never saw me. I could still hear her barking half a mile down the road.
And yes, I was as heartbroken by that as you probably are. I'll miss that little shit when the time comes.
A dynamic sonic exploration that sways from reflective quiet to explosive propulsion and brings to mind (apologies here in comparing something wholly original to something else – Angles really are their own beautiful cocktail – but my music review skills are a still little rusty; working on that by writing more about music here) The Necks – if they were playing in a New Orleans second line. I've listened to it three times today – and could listen to it thrice more. So good.
“Style is a very simple matter; it is all rhythm. Once you get that, you can’t use the wrong words. But on the other hand here I am sitting after half the morning, crammed with ideas, and visions, and so on, and can’t dislodge them, for lack of the right rhythm. Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it.”
Re-posting because this is so very, very relevant to where I'm finding myself in The Work this morning, starting and ending the month in the same place, apparently...
A couple of pre-anniversary dinner bargain finds. Cliff’s helmet head is a bit difficult to swap out with his unhelmeted head: not sure I’ve got it on right.
I've had their eponymous album on repeat since it came out in 2015, always hoping for another offering from this group – but learned this morning that singer Vanessa Bley and her two children (ages two and four months) died on 25 October 2019 "when another driver intentionally swerved into their lane and hit them head-on": what a tragic, senseless loss. Just… damn. RIP.
about my single creative desire: to write and self-publish strange, weird novellas, short stories, and the occasional non-fiction thing that function solely as my way of exorcising whatever's in me at the moment; all self-directed aspirational efforts not only at being published traditional-like but at screenplays or comics are, for now, dead: I'm weary of creating things that require others for a life that never seem to materialize; I'll let them come as they come and if they don't oh well. Not going to worry about it.
A lingering question: am I not seeking traditional publishing anymore because I'm worried I'm not good enough? Because I can't imagine anyone wanting to publish me? Or is it because I prefer the agency of self-publishing and really, at this point, feel no need to prove myself to anyone beyond myself?
Probably a bit of all of the above.
Would it be nice to have that extra representation to help me through the business end of things, to lend moral support, to light fires under my ass? Certainly. Do I see that happening anytime soon? Not particularly. Am I worried about it? Not as much as I thought I was.
Basically, everything current – TSR, PRESS (A) - the delivery system for much of the strange and the weird – and RE/EMERGENCE (still the happiest creative collaboration I've had) will continue. All that's being relegated to purgatory are the aforementioned self-directed aspirational efforts at tradpub, screen, and comics, a deliberate practice of letting go of one or two hopes and dreams to let the truest truth (of the moment) come to life.
Two additions to the noteshift workflow:
First, my Coal Creek Leather cover for my recently-beloved Field Notes Note Book (I dig the paper and it's beyond wonderful to not have my hand fall off the top of a thicker notebook into illegibility at the start of each page) arrived and it's as stunning as the smaller Memo Book wallet I've had for years. And it smells so good.
Second, since I shifted to smaller notebooks, I've been using this fold-up pocket dry erase board for thinking by hand. If I end up with something useful, I take a photo of it and load it into Obsidian for future reference or forgetting. Erase and repeat.
Note: I ordered my Noteboard via Amazon: the website listed on the board and bag seems defunct and I can't find it on the site they say it moved to…
Still getting the Obisidian Daily and Weekly notes feature configured – but I think I've got something closer to what I'm looking for. Dumped Toggl because it was redundant data; when, in some mythical future, I have actual clients, I can definitely see the value. But, since it's just me myself and I, I'm fine with how I've been managing that particular aspect of my workflow.
To be, as ever, continued, I'm sure.
Eight years ago today – happy anniversary, K. I love you.
