Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Why do you work so hard?

In any job environment, if it is important, then someone would make it seem important. If they don’t, then it isn’t important. Until it is; at which point if you haven't done it, you're screwed.

Saturday, June 5, 2010


Hello my friend. I’m sorry I haven’t spoken through you in a while. I’m sure you hear that all the time, from others besides me. You are but a vessel; the actual outpouring is universal and comes in every language. It is print. It can describe a moment to its fullest without being the actual moment, which alone stands complete. It can in words convey snapshots or hours, days, lifetimes. With so many users having access to this outlet, this transparent passage, everything I may draw from you seems inevitable that it has been drawn out before in some arrangement. What will I do with what you show me? What if I am the only one ever to ingest your words, your described moments? They will make me who I present to the world, influence who I am, for only myself. They can convince me of the things that only I know, if only I see what is drawn from you. None the less, pulling the same moment from you but with words rearranged seems redundant, common. It may still be worthwhile; if I show another it may inspire emotion otherwise unfelt. But even emotions have their ugly, though perhaps the most negative emotion can carry substance and emit a hint of purpose worth recognizing. Pulling from my mind for even the slightest (amount of time? what is time but moments passing, and what moment shows a beginning and an end? Time moment period space of rest of breath...that label is for another time-there’s that word again...) makes my head spin, like I have to hold on or else risk spinning out into the whirling pool of sparkled images materializing in print. “Pull them all!” says my being. “Pull them all and show everyone!” Therein lay the fear, the burden, the weight of stone that tugs at the effort and tickles the inaction to rear its ridiculously squandering nature. If I show no one, then by creating and destroying doesn’t the act render itself squandering? And so my head fills; and my head controls my hands and my legs, and does not control itself.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

asking myself...

I do not fear the work that I need to be doing; I do not fear the cold room where I will be doing the work although I may use that as an excuse from time to time. I think I have the ability to sit and write about things that I find interesting, and a common fear that might exist is one of rejection. I don’t know that I fear rejection. I may fear producing a work that is never read by another, but does this mean that I should not write it? Does this mean that I do not believe in my own work enough to even produce it? That my passion for the art is fabricated and not sincere? Do I love to write, or do I write because I want love?

my closet

I’ve taken my muse for granted. I’ve made an assumption that she will never leave, and that I have indefinite amounts of time to begin acknowledging her presence. My muse may be sitting in limbo waiting for me to wake her, but that does not mean that I have the right to let her sleep.

There is a closet in my mind that I leave shut. I walk by this closet in my mind daily and avoid opening because I am lazy. This closet does not contain a monster or some other tangible danger to fear. If there is a closet filled with something I dread, it is a closet filled with responsibility. It is my own responsibility to shape and fashion my destiny (how cliché), whereas currently the daily grind does that for me. I have no responsibility but to go to work in order to receive my meager wage. The perk of this job is the lack of responsibility. Some may argue that their work done is game changing or essential, but that is an illusion and the truth is denied. The materials needed to change the game are provided. None of the progress would be possible without the job, even though the talent drives the progress. It is arrogant to believe that one is something more than a cog in the engine, arrogance to believe one is a separate engine all to itself. This is never the case unless the engine was built brand new for a machine that would not exist if not for its creation.

This machine lives in the closet in my mind. I am afraid to build it. And so my muse continues to sleep, and for all I know she is already gone.

Friday, April 2, 2010

soundshift say:

It's a good feeling to be proud of one's self, even though the arrogance is so ugly.

soundshift say:

Be your own example of how you want to see others and love yourself.

soundshift say:

Be modest and humble about your own successes because you may have much that others envy.