So, there’s this girl, right?
A lot of people know her. I just started to know her. She writes and tweets and is part of the community thing I’ve become totally addicted to.
She likes to dance and she wrote a nifty post and a poem and it hit me in the diaphragm. So I remembered something I wrote. I don’t know why. I also do not know why I am up at 6 in the morning.
Well, yeah I do. I’m up at six in the morning because I’m worried the very large cup with the very small amount of OJ in it that is my career. I’m serious about the OJ. It’s good for you. But it’s a shitty metaphor and I’m dead-dog tired.
Let’s just shake that one off, shall we?
What’s news? Well, I’ve done a track that I’ve done already twice before. This will be the third time that I have done the same project. I literally can’t do this project again. And yet, I will. I have this feeling that I will be recording this track … again. This track that is the bane of my existence. I shouldn’t have looked at it. Shouldn’t have touched it with a ten-footer. And yet I go back and back again. And maybe it will color everything I do here. I don’t know. Maybe I am just tired. But it seems like I’m starting to rack up a track record of misses and ennui. I don’t know. I’ll have to see. Maybe I’m not giving it enough time.
I think there’s something psychological about all this.
I need to figure it out right quick too, because I have real stuff coming up in April. Real live, local stuff which could lead to stuff that I will start getting paid for. That could lead to other stuff which leads to more stuff which leads to stuff which helps me. I can’t afford to get psyched out because I don’t think I’m good enough and I question the way I do things every track.
Anyway. Butt-o’clock in the morning is no time to be pondering these thoughts. About the poem: I should be all dramatic, and leave you with it. I wrote it when I was leaving a sitch that was really trapping me, a few years ago. I remembered it now.
When I say “release”
I am not talking of orgasm
I am speaking of the chains fallen
Limp! – Impotent!
to the ground
The soaring, flying phrases of an aria
carrying me away from the detritus
of the expectation
that I will stay in my cage and be quiet
I rub my ankles, I had never been sure
that they were there, that I even
No one is standing with a gun at the door
No one is keeping me here
And the sky outside
is blue, with only a few