Creative Control

Miscellaneous Mental Musings of an Emerging Artist

Train of thought jumping the tracks.

What happened?

This used to come so easily.

What happened to the pipeline between mind and mouth and fingers, why do they no longer cooperate, why does mind have lofty creative ideals that fingers refuse to execute, why do I sit in front of the first paragraphs of good plots struggling to alchemically transform them into good story, into good script, into good anything? Have I been swallowed by my own influences, digested to the point that I petrify, afraid or otherwise, syntax and vocabulary no longer my friends but workhorses, unwilling to plow? When did I lose my own ability to rejoice in writing? Have I lost it, or momentarily misplaced it? Is it in the last place I look? Inspiraling out of control. Prose and cons. My voice making sounds like an ancient pencil sharpener, bitterly chewing and chewing and spitting out the same shavings. Failure of moment. Collapse. Writing down words for no other reason than to write down words, a chimp plagiarizing Shakespeare, combinatoric rhetoric. Cutting around the briars and unwanted guardians of my subconscious. Slaughter soluble. Laying about him with the sword, no the pen, no the sword. Cursive long forgotten, scribbles abandoned, ghost towns of characters and comedies, what has happened to me? Dissonant clang of consonance and assonance and erosion and life underlined up to be shot. They don’t know what you’re doing / babe it must be art. [1] Shipwrecked in my own skeleton, navigated community, compass go and collect two hundred dollars. Standing outside myself and wondering if it’s more money than it’s worth to fix it up. Aluminum siding. Picture window. Reflecting pool. Move along, move along, nothing to see here, disperse, disperse. Defaulted alone. Coasting on biorhythms face covered in greasepaint calling upon voodoo gods to claim my essence and make something new of it, internal gallery on fire and insurance uncollected. Running out of esteem. Thorn in the sidecar. Stopping, stopping, stopping, stopping stopping stopping stopping going.

[1] U2, “Hold Me Thrill Me Kiss Me Kill Me,” Batman Forever soundtrack album.

Current music: Signals from my Childhood; Big Country, “In a Big Country”

(come out screaming)

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This entry was posted on June 26, 2003 by in Thoughts, Writing.
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