3.11.2007

back in the saddle


so it's been a few months since i've allowed myself to indulge in this form of venting, entertainment, pasatiempo, whatever you wanna call it. the 'space got out of control with the stalk-factor and my brutal honesty was alienating more people than ted kennedy at a mothers against drunk driving convention so i let it go by the wayside. i found myself having a lot more time on my hands without my trusty medium to keep me company, time i filled with the other end of the spectrum: books. i began reading even more than usual: on break at work, between my shower and dinner, after dinner; basically, any time that wasn't spent maintaining homeostasis was spent with my nose between the pages of some dead bastard who thought he found some kind of truth. that's all fine and good, but what about my own search for whatever it is we're searching for? it dawned on me that for someone like me reading without writing is much like cupping the balls while ignoring the shaft, if you can pardon my crudeness for argument's sake. sure, it's important to absorb as much as i can, but what's the point if i don't filter it through my own mind and let it out somehow? what good will the highlighted passages do me if i don't bounce them around inside the walls of my skull, recycle them, make them my own somehow, and redistribute the wealth of useless knowledge that may somehow piece together to bring life's bigger picture into focus.

of all the times to quit writing for awhile i happened to pick a turbulent one; fights with loved ones, bloodshed of various sorts, estrangement from my father, job related frustrations, uncertainty in all aspects of life. it all could have been documented, if not eased, with this trusty format. i tried writing a few times during my hiatus, but could never manage to finish any thoughts because they seemed futile if no one other than myself could read them. it may sound vain, but i didn't want to expend the energy needed to create if there wasn't an audience of at least one or two. which makes me wonder if the picassos and beethovens would have painted and composed if they were the only ones on earth. probably, which is probably one of the qualities that distinguishes true artists from amateur dabblers like myself. oh well, at least i understand the functionality of my hobby, my obsession, my words.

this is starting to read like a mission statement and i'm afraid that i won't be able to live up to it somehow. let me not get ahead of myself, let me put the soapbox away. i'll try to recapitulate the main events that happened and ideas i had while i was 'gone' to fill in the gaps. selected quotes from whatever i'm reading at the time will probably pop up from time to time as food for thought. i also have a few 'fictional' ideas firing across the rusty synapses that might find their way here at some point; trite short stories, lousy poetry, but definitely not that novel that never got past the fourth chapter. understand that i didn't stop out of a lack of ideas or motivation, but out of realization: there's no need to write a book that's still unfolding and being told little by little over the course of years. this has always been chapter five, and the beauty's that it seems to write itself if i can sit back and stay out of it's way. forget the silence, enjoy the ride.




currently reading:
"one day in the life of ivan denisovich" by alexander solzhenitsyn.
d.h. lawrence's complete poems

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