Ever play something so wondrous, so magical, and wish you had pressed the Record button? Just had that moment. It was good; reminded me of why I still have my music equipment. But it also speaks of the ephemeral nature of the Moment, how it’s important to be present when it happens. Joyful, yet melancholy.
I agitatedly paced around my apartment afterward, swinging hands through the air, because as elated I felt, there was no recording. Nobody will hear it, and I won’t remember it. Concert for one. There’s that melancholy. There are technological solutions to this, but the moment the timeline rolls, nothing happens. This is the crux of the problem of creativity.
Or at least the crux of my own problem with creativity.
The more I think about it, the more I start to understand that my fixation with organizing my music equipment — with keeping it neat, with setting up the keyboard racks and positioning the speakers and making things accessible just in case I get the inspiration to record something — the more I think that maybe that’s all doing nothing more than standing in the way of my actual creativity. It’s not serving my actual creativity. My apartment is so quiet, the space is so close, the room has no air, and I am using this equipment that’s just so uncomfortable to use. Creativity needs noise; it needs a mess, something you can spill and smash and tear up. Everything I have is on wire bread racks and scissor keyboard stands, and it’s just…uncomfortable. There’s no place to rest, to space to expand and relax and let things flow. That’s a major problem. I feel like putting it all on the fucking floor and crouching over it and punching buttons and putting it all within arm’s reach and really getting my face into it, letting the noise spill out through the windows and through the walls and not giving a damn.
In the mess, creativity. In the creativity, inspiration. I complain about not having it; now I must find a way to allow it to happen. Must find a way where it is inevitable.
driving around texarkana area tonight. wandering. thinking.
funny how the new happens, old memories still return.
north jefferson. in the highbeams, telephone poles look like crucifixes. fields of them. three sixteen. gethsemane. sheol. texarkana.
sugarhill road. old beech street haunts, youth groupers lived there. parents successful. edge of town, suburbs.
sanderson lane. saw stars. cassiopeia. mash of others. streak of cloud confused the glow of the milky way. blurry x in the sky.
distant stars. distant headlights startled, mustn’t get caught on the side of the road looking up.
mustn’t be caught wanting to be alone. inviting inquisitions. accusations. trouble.
started car, drove away.
waffle house. read dharma bums over coffee. found a chum behind the counter, told me to read palahniuk. told him to read miller.
cruised the downtown. bright lights, empty city.
turned right. hwy 82. widened to 4 lanes. still 45mph.
turned left at orphanage, where first girl laura lived. confusing times, those. longest month. first 2 weeks in love, remainder alone together.
drove to rondo, turned right. cruised past amy’s house; father ministered rondo methodist church. retired. house has changed hands.
phil and sandy’s old place. now just sandy’s place.
turned left, 82 outbound. thinking. remembering. upward bound trips.
stars through the window. geolocation by the domes of light on the horizon. there’s hope.
there’s nashville. there’s ashdown. there’s magnolia.
stars and moon came up. the old man. the half moon. the couple arising in glory. winter’s first glimpse of orion, my old, old friend. memories.
fields at ouachita, talking, communing with the old man. asking questions, questions.
stars in the window on my radio. wrapping it around, inspired returning to the inspiration. the born back to the place of birth.
heavy moment and smiles.
found myself in stamps. tiny sleepy burg. orange lights, dusty houses, gravel garages and propane tanks.
ez mart has no bathroom. sacred and profane. u turn and found a boat ramp. pissing in the river.
made something live. left my dark mark on the light caliche. train whistles and dark lights. key to pedal to getting out of there.
returning. remembering. arkansas life. distant memory, but soaked into the makeup of me.
had a tough time of it then. knew things but didn’t know things. smart but stupid. brilliant but ignorant.
built the half moon and old man i am.
dreams. had dreams. spoke poetic jibberish, it all came from here, but needed the distance to speak the verses.
no support structure, no friendly air.
but in finding my people outside, i found my voice. then i lost my people along the way.
and then austin.
those voices spoke poison. so ragged and bedraggled. so negative. so cruel.
enough time with them, my own voice stopped. creativity shriveled. mustn’t get caught looking up.
mustn’t be caught wanting to express. inviting derision. humiliation. trouble.
why did i care about their words? why close lips and hope to sneak on by?
texarkana. the source and fuel for my psyche. texarkana. where i lost my soul. fields of crucifixes. three sixteen.
our god is an awesome god and holy holy holy.
no way. no fucking way.
43 and on mute. 25 years hence trying to find myself. ongoing battle, eternal war.
turning. wandering. searching.
searching for the voice.
remembering the dreams.
i miss tomorrow. tomorrow is not what it used to be.
ever hoping, but driving into the uncertainty.