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trailing my own sentences.
feeling like I'm running on street curbs and over "don't walk" signs. it's
twelve thirty and the devil may care. my handy little tape recorder's my
left hand dude and I keep pressing record and singing stuff that doesn't
have words.
cuz this is da afterglow, gang.
haven't felt so creatively enticed in ages and the canvases are staring at
me and my ink pen's wishing to leak in something other than blotches on my
desktop.
are they muses?
are they heros?
are they saints?
no, after this weekend, I'm pretty convinced Monsiers Linford and Jack and
the ever lovely Karin are quite, quite human. if a little cold didn't drive
that point home and knit caps hiding the eyes.
so, we mortals can do this stuff, aye?
(just rambling because it's twelve thirty and my voice is trickling out,
aided by too much coffee.)
and melanie asked me, with force behind her words.
(we were walking down cracked sidewalks--I'd swear we had no destination as
the snowflakes rented space in my knit stalking cap.)
I love it when Mel gets force behind her words. she calls me on the carpet.
she kicks me in my ass--
(which is where I draw most thoughts and words from)
(which means I usually have to consult the befuddled, sleepy cranium.)
so. she asked me.
why am I in college. why is it important. what do we do for God and man
and this place we live in.
her voice waxed desperate, and she even told me to shut up when I laughed at
her.
damn. I'm so glad she did.
and I thought.
(finding the ass disfunctional and her unaccepting of my shit.)
and I gave her some bumper sticker skims.
and cliff notes.
(her voice waxed desperate.)
and I'm eighteen years old and I wonder why the hell I do any of it and why
the hell I bottle it up and keep it on shelves for rainy days where I dump
it on my floor and positively soak myself and it and the sweat of my
passions.
but so rarely tone it, push it, and serve it with silverware.
so, here's mr. tape recorder at my left hand. the little red light glows at
my every squeak. my voice ain't much and hardly cares what scales and
pitches mean. but mel said, let's have a band and I said, why not.
and I said, why not?
why not any of it?
why the hell don't you send stuff to get published?
why the hell don't you send your paintings to an academy?
why don't you sing in front of somebody?
cuz maybe when they listen, they'll here some of that bottled up bit of
God-placed stuff that says he still cares about designing humans. maybe
they can see some of that little trace of humanity worth photographing and
underlining. because by grace, it's still edging between my adjectives and
creeping truth in my intended bullshit.
maybe.
it's been done before. there's this band called Over the Rhine, you see,
and they positively befuddle me. they're playing in bars and I'm swooning
and thinking--
they could never do any more than this, and I would have received so much of
what I needed.
they could never play in a place grander than this, and I would have said,
they found me right at the softest spot.
so, call me dazed. rambling. befuddled. desperate too, because Mel's
making my voice echo.
but I'm ready to start using my brain.
it's kinda nice, sometimes.
(too bad I'll forget all this tomarrow. so much said in riled rants, so
much I don't usually access. damn, if I'd trail my own sentences and fuel
something useful with my fires).
goodnight.
(if you guys would just shut up about my damn writing, I wouldn't feel so
welcome to mumble like this!)
(feeling sheepish)
lindsey godlove.
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