Up until this point, all of the entries in this blog have been copy/paste jobs from my rapidly growing archive. Tonight, dear lucky reader, you get something fresh, and possibly insane. You see, despite my strong attraction to all things alcohol, I rarely write with it. I have better things to be doing drunk than sitting alone in front of a keyboard. Like sitting alone in front of the television. Or with a guitar, playing the same two notes over and over and over and over.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, I am ending a long, busy, and fairly decent day. I have a bottle of Red Cat in the refrigerator (one for the housewives), and have apparently decided that old Modest Mouse would be the best music to go along with it. "Dramamine", "Trailer Trash" and two glasses in, and here I am.
"I'll write in my blog," I say.
But, what do I have to say at the moment? What what what, do I have to say?
And then it fucking dawns on me. I am fairly certain I have nothing to say. Not just tonight, but, ever. Looking back through my posts (and as the wine and evening roll on, eventually my archive), I don't see much. I am angry at the world (as any self respecting person should be). I am angry at my father (as a massive amount of my generation is), and I am happy to see beauty around me (as all people should, because beautiful reader, it is every where). But how does this differentiate me from anyone else?
Why are you bothering to read this at all?
Why am I bothering to write this?
I suppose that I am either A.) expecting some sort of beautiful universal truth to eventually drip out, or B.) so narcissistic that I think that whatever drivel I write is actually worth reading. I think it's safe to say that both you and I know that neither of those two options are very likely, if not impossible altogether. Am I alone in this?
What do you love? Why do you do it? My musician friends. My writer friends. My artist friends. Why do you continue to create, when your shows are empty, your paintings won't sell, your words go unheard? What is it that you are trying to say with your invisible work? To what ends are you searching?
God damn it, I love you. You tireless, diligent, unending creators. I know why you do it. You create because you have to create. There is no other option but to make. To paint, play, and write. To leave something behind, to get something out, to not let the chaos strangling this ball of shit in space drive you mad. You wonderful people. I see you. With your tired eyes and your dashed dreams. Yet you continue, and I am with you.
I am with you.
I have no other option but to fill hard drive after hard drive with songs. To cover canvases with shitty paintings. To fill notebooks with bullshit. I do it to survive. I do it to make breathing effortless. I do it to make waking up meaningful. I create to fight the darkness.
Oh you creators.
Fuck the darkness.
-A.
It doesn't go unnoticed. And I'm on a Modest Mouse Kick too. S.S.
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