Social media has perverted and supplanted my ability to express myself artistically, literarily, philosophically, poetically. The things I used to say, things I want to say from the back of my soul — in the front of my mind is now installed a filter, a tuned circuit to impedance match and pipe that natural, raw sound inside into the echo chamber to get maximum resonance. To get more likes. To get more comments. To incite reactions. And not exactly for my own good end, either. Social media doesn’t actually benefit me, or you, or anybody; its sole good is for the benefit of media itself. The platforms I use have insinuated themselves into my thinking. This is death of self, really.

I had something I wanted to post 10 minutes ago, but I stopped myself. Why? Because of the reasons stated above. I can’t keep going down that straight one-dimensional line; there are so many more dimensions to this world. There’s depth and space. If I can’t see that, and remember that, and try stretching out, to find the meat, to see where the people actually are instead of where they want to be seen, then my life is shallow. Meet me somewhere, or call me out of my stupid rut. I dare you.

I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something I’m just not doing, or finding, or finishing. Satisfaction hasn’t shown her face in my door in a long, long while. I must find her. I must find you.


I feel like my job has killed off all of my creative drive.

Not sure if it’s the job, or if it’s just middle-aged doldrums, or if it’s just physical, mental, and emotional fatigue. Haven’t made music in 3 years, maybe 4. Don’t write anymore. Don’t draw. Don’t even carry my paper journal, and that’s a shame, really. A damnable shame. It’s like my internal life is on mute, muffled under pillows to suffocate and die. Can’t possibly be healthy.

I know I want to write and create. I know I have the time after hours to do so, but where is the motion? Where is the push over the hump? Where’s the Muse to help me overcome the inertia of standing still when all I really want to do after work is rest, think about something else (or nothing at all), and try to recover? I mean, do I really have anything to say that anybody really wants to hear?

So the obvious cure is to write, and draw, and play, and be, like, not dead inside, right? Is that how it works? Can I force it? I dunno. But when I figure out the answer to my impending irrelevance, I’ll let you know, OK?


Spending some time at the end of my day going through a folder of poems I wrote eons ago. Why don’t I still write them? Why do I write only one, maybe two a year? I wrote dozens, thousands, millions of them. Yes, I’d hit 20% gold, but at that rate, that’s a good collection. The ones now, they’re rare, and rarer still, gold-plated and pretty to look at.

Young, dumb 20’s. Breast full of air, the swell of youth, the juice of life, and veins full of hope in relevance, companionship, sex, lust, forever, forever. I can’t possibly hope to go back to that and expect respect. Men kill for a return to previous forms. But the recent years have handed me a razor edge to slice and disdain, a ballot and a bullet of poisonous ideas that nobody gives a damn, that there’s nobody out there, that nothing means anything. That’s a sour drink, and it’s a sick thing to take in and spit out every day. I need more than this.

I need more.

Never Delivers

Been digging on an electronic music style called Vaporwave, which is a broad term describing music that’s generic but hopeful, yet entirely forgettable if it was in the background. It’s like ambient, but with a beat (usually). It’s named after “vaporware” which is a kind of software that promises but never delivers. It has the ability to build up, but it seldom does, and never goes over the threshold of danceability. Notable examples of Vaporwave are 2814, Macintosh Plus, Hong Kong Express, Blank Banshee, among many others.

What wows me is how deep and lush it all can be. It’s new and novel, and I’m in love. And it humbles me that these artists can weave these tapestries of sound and establish this great vibe, yet here I am with my tiny little studio and I can’t muster a single solid song.

And there’s a problem with that. A big problem, actually. It’s not that I can’t write — I can, in fact, write music — it’s that I’m comparing myself to them. I don’t have the tools, the time, or the expertise. But even that’s not it. I’m listening, and half of me is enjoying what I hear, and the other half, the selfish half, is seething with jealousy, envy, and scorn. My dick’s getting in the way, as though if I don’t catch up and assert my primacy, I won’t get all the girls. That’s such a breathless, exasperating, terrible point of view, and it’s destructive to any joy of discovery. So here I am, analyzing, searching for the patterns so I can attempt to backtrack to the source of their inspiration, so that I too can emulate that and catch up to them. But you know what? That’s wrong. That’s so completely wrong; the wrongest of wrongs.

The greatest hindrance to my creativity is that of trying to catch up. True creativity comes from muddling around in chaos until order appears, and then building upon that order, regardless of the shape. Starting out, I never know how a song is going to sound until it’s finished; a song is the cumulative result of all the influencing factors during its genesis and refinement. One cannot architect a song’s shape and ever hope to build the framework to fit exactly, not unless one is a master of their craft — that’s the top-down approach. I am not a master of my craft. I want to sound like them, but I won’t, not unless I’m in their shoes, in their studio, with their creative sessions, fueled by their interests. I don’t have those. I have my own life; they have theirs.

So what should I do? What I can do is muddle around in the chaos again. Where does my creativity get sparked? Where do I get inspired? In that randomness that comes from getting lost in the moment with my equipment and software and sound files and keyboards. Everything I ever wrote was from a spur of the moment thing that happened, and I built upon that. If I want to make anything big and thick and worthy of celebrating, that’s where I start. What I end up with may not be anywhere near what they’ve got, but that’s not the point. That should never be the point.

It’s one thing for a swordsman to trace his opponent’s footsteps in the sand and watch his technique and try to work backward to his genesis to become great himself, but it’s quite another for a swordsman to practice swinging at targets and ultimately become deadly accurate.

Inertial Moment

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.