i wrote this back in july of last year. i found it in an old blog. it makes me really appreciate what i've gone through and where i am.
The pillow punches the back of my head. I think of lyrics. I think of blackouts. I think of nutrition. Bills. Moving. Friends. Ex-lovers. Books. Drugs. Breathing. God. I try to focus on a book. A paragraph. Two paragraphs. I can't remember what I just read. I turn the radio on. Then off. I think about heart attacks. The first paragraph of "Women". I think of sex. Strokes. Brain tumors. Years of abuse to the body, the mind, the spirit. I turn the radio back on. Django is raking my nerves. I look through my cds. I think about jazz. I think about the blues. Country. Bluegrass. Soul. Reggae. Rock. Hip-Hop. Trip-Hop. I take a piss. I sit down and take another look at my cds. Nothing. I lay down and try to get cold. I get cold and throw a blanket over myself. I can't get comfortable. I turn the light on. I read. Knut Hamsun. I like it, but my mind wanders. I reread a few paragraphs. I put down the book and look at the clock. 5 turns to 6. 6 to 7. 7 to 8. I wonder how Otis Redding got such a soulful voice. Otis Redding, dead at 27. I think of flying. I think of sex. I haven't had sex in sometime. That's ok, it's not the addiction I'm looking to feed. I've gone longer. Back in the day, drinking was more important than sex. I think about my last night of drinking. I think about jail cells. Telephone poles. Insurance papers. If I fall asleep in a half hour, I can get four and a half hours of sleep. I hear the birds outside. I walk around my apartment. A depressing site in the early morning light. I find a gospel album. I pray it will call my mind. My body is tired. My mind is racing. Thoughts, memories. lyrics, poetry, they race by. Too fast to grasp. I think about art. I think about artists. I think about junkies. Junk. Junk Art. I lay and listen to the gospel. Rev. Cleophus something. I picked it up at work the other day. I think about work. Paychecks. Bills Taxes.Food. I look around my room. I wonder why people are more shocked by nudity than bombs. I think about LSD. Speed. Heroin. Mushrooms. Coke. Alcohol. Pot. I trhink of nerve damage. Panic attacks. The future.The sun. God, I prayed for alot of people tonight. This morning. I said their names out loud. I prayed for the world. I prayed for healing. For letting go. I am a chicken-shit. A fraud. Pathetic. I am no artist. I have nothing original to say. No vision. No direction. A follower. A sheep. I only want to survive. Survive for what? To die? Why put of the inevitable? Why not join God now, God-boy? You say your prayers and fear death at 8 in the morning? Why not write a song, song-writer? You fucking fake. Transparent. Why not expand that mind a little more? Remember, You know what you are doing. You are in control. You are calling the shots.
I pick up my book. I read. Chapter four. Chapter five. I listen to the gospel. I try to think positive. I give thanks for the sun. The sky. The life. The friends. The family. I close my eyes and watch the purple Os move up and to the right. I think of a lyric, but don't risk getting up to write it down.
The pillow punches the back of my head. I think of lyrics. I think of blackouts. I think of nutrition. Bills. Moving. Friends. Ex-lovers. Books. Drugs. Breathing. God. I try to focus on a book. A paragraph. Two paragraphs. I can't remember what I just read. I turn the radio on. Then off. I think about heart attacks. The first paragraph of "Women". I think of sex. Strokes. Brain tumors. Years of abuse to the body, the mind, the spirit. I turn the radio back on. Django is raking my nerves. I look through my cds. I think about jazz. I think about the blues. Country. Bluegrass. Soul. Reggae. Rock. Hip-Hop. Trip-Hop. I take a piss. I sit down and take another look at my cds. Nothing. I lay down and try to get cold. I get cold and throw a blanket over myself. I can't get comfortable. I turn the light on. I read. Knut Hamsun. I like it, but my mind wanders. I reread a few paragraphs. I put down the book and look at the clock. 5 turns to 6. 6 to 7. 7 to 8. I wonder how Otis Redding got such a soulful voice. Otis Redding, dead at 27. I think of flying. I think of sex. I haven't had sex in sometime. That's ok, it's not the addiction I'm looking to feed. I've gone longer. Back in the day, drinking was more important than sex. I think about my last night of drinking. I think about jail cells. Telephone poles. Insurance papers. If I fall asleep in a half hour, I can get four and a half hours of sleep. I hear the birds outside. I walk around my apartment. A depressing site in the early morning light. I find a gospel album. I pray it will call my mind. My body is tired. My mind is racing. Thoughts, memories. lyrics, poetry, they race by. Too fast to grasp. I think about art. I think about artists. I think about junkies. Junk. Junk Art. I lay and listen to the gospel. Rev. Cleophus something. I picked it up at work the other day. I think about work. Paychecks. Bills Taxes.Food. I look around my room. I wonder why people are more shocked by nudity than bombs. I think about LSD. Speed. Heroin. Mushrooms. Coke. Alcohol. Pot. I trhink of nerve damage. Panic attacks. The future.The sun. God, I prayed for alot of people tonight. This morning. I said their names out loud. I prayed for the world. I prayed for healing. For letting go. I am a chicken-shit. A fraud. Pathetic. I am no artist. I have nothing original to say. No vision. No direction. A follower. A sheep. I only want to survive. Survive for what? To die? Why put of the inevitable? Why not join God now, God-boy? You say your prayers and fear death at 8 in the morning? Why not write a song, song-writer? You fucking fake. Transparent. Why not expand that mind a little more? Remember, You know what you are doing. You are in control. You are calling the shots.
I pick up my book. I read. Chapter four. Chapter five. I listen to the gospel. I try to think positive. I give thanks for the sun. The sky. The life. The friends. The family. I close my eyes and watch the purple Os move up and to the right. I think of a lyric, but don't risk getting up to write it down.
sofia6969:
I heart you, Dave.
