Henry was a young man with no intention to do much of anything with his life. He had a less than mediocre job washing dishes at a small country buffet, and he preformed his duties there in a less than mediocre fashion. He lived in the basement of his parents house. His free time consisted of playing video games, smoking pot, and shooting soggy balls of tissue paper into a twenty dollar Costco wastebasket. Henry graduated high school in nineteen-ninety. Aside from starting a Nirvana cover band that was mutually discontinued in a smoky garage, he had never accomplished anything "worth a damn" according to his father. Henry attempted to saved money for about two years after high school. He managed to accumulate over five-hundred dollars before he blew it all on a brand new quadruple-percolated bong; the bong of his dreams. (Ok I am drunk and getting tired. I will continue the saga tomorrow.) p.s this will be an ongoing blog that hopefully will develop into something.
It's been a while since I've posted on this forum, but I'm back.... Lol I hope you care. I had a rough bout of writers block, but as I said "I'm back."
I recently ventured out to see if I could find a place to rent in my community. There are thousand of options. Most cost anything from five-hundred to one-thousand dollars a month. I found a great prospect the other day by the river. It was a tan house with two bedrooms and a bath going for only two-hundred dollars a month! Naturally, I found this location on craigslist. I copied the owners email address and sent him a message. My message was this: "Hello, my name is Wendy Wilson." (I am a male, and my name is not Wendy Wilson). "I see that you have a wonderful house for rent down by the river in the valley. I am very interested. I only have two questions: Why is your property so cheep to rent? Is it haunted?" I received an email two weeks later stating: "Hello Wendy Wilson. My name is Mike Wilson. Yes. My house is haunted by the spirit of my dead father. We have had a lot of renovations done to the place lately. My father is not aggressive, but he does get upset if a renovator does a sloppy job. If he thinks a job is done sloppily he will wreck up the place a bit until the renovator’s progress is halted. The only problem is; we cannot get my father to leave. He rented the place from us for three years. He died last month. I've been trying to explain to him that he cannot haunt a house that he does not own. He is only renting. I am giving him a month. Once his month is up, he's got to get the hell out of there. Thanks for your interest, and I look forward to meeting you." I did not reply. I'm not interested in renting a house anymore; I want to own. P.S. This is a true story... Kind of...
Don’t ever doubt a good feeling. Unless that good feeling is being offered by a bearded stranger in a windowless van; in which case doubting would be encouraged.
Hello grand new view. What brings you to such a dull disposition? Is it the wild unknown? Is it the vast conquered human nature? How have you been summoned? A plague realized you must be, and a faint signal I must send. Just like a child I embrace you; only to feel no brace in response. I miss the inspiration you bring. I miss the statute on which you rest. No laws remain that slip and falter. No cast can pierce the craven spread. As a union we do falter, and bring together what elders mend. It's disconcerting and uninstalling, that you and I are mortal men.
Lately I have been running low on a much needed resource. My "smoothness" stock hold seems to have been sabotaged in the night. I don't normally have much trouble talking to women, and in fact I do quite well, conversationally speaking. Something strange has happened though. Today I went to the local market as I always do at lunch. I saw some friends, saw some enemies, saw some clowns, and I saw her. It is her that makes this daily visit exiting. Besides my beloved custom sandwich (oh goodness, so delicious), she is why I go to this market every day. I'm no stalker mind you, you're not watching Pepe Le Pew. I am simply intrigued by this woman. Upon seeing her I made a b-line for isle 5 to hide. What? Why did I hide? I shook off my confusion and returned to the center stage. I saw her again and this time she turned toward me. I smiled, and then my cheek muscles began to twitch for some damn reason. "Ahhh I look like I'm schizo," I thought and I took off again. Luckily my sandwich was ready, so I had some time to kill. I got my sandwich and headed toward the register. She was the clerk. "Hello," she said with a very warm tone. "Hiya," my voice squeaked as I finished the word. "Mmh mhm," I cleared my throat. "How are ya," I said in a lower tone. "I,m great," she said. "Though I,m getting tired of this stupid watercolor jazz station that they've been playing all day." "Ha shtl." I laughed through my nose. Big mistake. Upon laughing I had launched a little messenger from my nose. He apparently had urgent news for this nice woman's blouse. She noticed. "Oh I'm so sorry, that's disgusting" I said. "Let me get that off of you." Bigger mistake. Not only did I flick the little guy from her blouse to her chin, I had accidentally assaulted this poor woman's breast. She was a good sport. She only punched my right eye, and left some teeth in my mouth. I left and ate my sandwich. I wondered what tomorrow would bring. P.S. This is a fictional story
Today I had a piano lesson. The lesson was going great; with nothing out of the ordinary. I took my seat at the piano bench, and my teacher sat next to me. We were working out some chords for "I've Got a Feeling," by the Beetles. I as usual, was playing the chords on the low register, and my teacher (an old woman) played on the high register; naturally. As we played, the splintery old bench beneath us would creak and wobble; this happened naturally. This lesson was going to be like every other lesson I had with my lovely old lady. We stopped playing to talk a moment about how to progress to the next bar of the song, and something most unnatural occurred. My lovely old-lady-piano-teacher had passed gas. That is a very polite way of saying it, because in fact she ripped ass. The bench beneath us trembled, and my teacher sort of shook and twitched. She coughed to divert attention away from the drama, and upon doing so farted tremendously. Laughing was not an option. I nearly bit my tong in half trying to hold back the impending chuckles. My teacher then jumped up and pretended the phone was ringing and left quickly to the next room. When she came back I noticed she had a new pair of pants on. She sat down pulled up the chart and we began to play "Let It Be," by the Beetles. It was very fitting.
There was the point in my life where I wondered what it was that separates great people from one-another. I concluded, nothing. But, my understanding of great writers, artists, and musicians was they make good art, and they get ****ed up. I too followed these parameters, (though my art is up for critique), and I became discontented. The word tag-along came to mind. Almost every big time and small time artist that I have ever read about, whether it be a biography or quote, had used substances and alcohol unceasingly, and then became sober and more wise, and in some cases a better artist. I realized that I didn’t want to follow that same old story. I wanted to create art without collaboration with drugs or alcohol. Though, this path seemed a dream, because I loved drugs and alcohol and bought into the idea that great popular artists needed substance to channel their ever restless minds to avoid imploding from their own brilliance. I needed to be different. My plan seemed simple. Stop! Just stop drinking. You don’t need cigarettes; all they do is slow you down. The idea was there. The action hid from me. How the **** was I supposed to just stop. I liked the darkness. It made me creative. I imagined what it would be like to be sober and it scared me. The darkness called me heroically. “Destined to dread and anxiety forever more, the young artist showed his fruits and they were good. But, he died early and was never happy.” I didn’t want that ending for myself. I only wanted the former. I felt like the darkness was taped seamlessly to my eyes and brain, and to rip it away so quickly could risk loss of brain tissue and my eyes would pop out. I thought life after drugs could not bring inspiration in the least. But, it can. I am slowly but surely reaching a point in my life where I can see the different spectrums of my own inspiration, and what that inspiration produces. I am slowly coming to a pinnacle in my life. I am beginning to see my darkness and own it, as well as my light. Drugs and alcohol can only bring you so far as an artist. All drugs can do is bring you to a wall, and leave you there to steep in the same thoughts and emotions. To overcome addiction is to expand and break free. There has been no time in my life where I have truly felt that I could continue to drink, do drugs, and smoke the rest of my life. I always knew it would lead nowhere, but I liked being nowhere. That was what I had to overcome. However inspiring and magical sadness and darkness is to me, I could never be happy when I wasn’t immersed in those feelings. And, when I was feeling dark or sad I wasn’t happy anyway; I was only inspired and fed off of that inspiration. It was only until recently that I discovered how much more I could draw from that dark inspiration when I’m sober and happy. All emotions become more clear when you are clear headed. You can experience sadness, darkness, light, love, and still be able to come back to a solid foundation. Let compassion, love, intrigue, empathy, people, and nature be your foundation. Don’t buy into drug abuse. I’ll have some alcohol from time to time and maybe smoke some marijuana, but I will do it responsibly and on my own terms; not the drugs terms. I will let myself be truly free and have no crutches; because after all, crutches slow you down. In a world with so much beauty, art, and mystery I pledge to be fully aware and experience; especially on the day that I die.