Struck

I've come to certain conclusions, but I can't recall what they are.

My eyes droop and quiver in the cool air, trying to capture and focus in on a bunch of letters on a screen. More than this bout with physical lethargy, I find myself struggling to overcome certain mental notes to myself. Why should I like a routine? Why am I doing this or that? What should be read next? What should be worked on next? Every so often, a glance left, then right, just to ensure no one is watching too closely, stealing my comfort from under me. Some arts have a new life when spectate-d upon, others become peculiar, unconventional and almost paranoid. at the mere mention of watchfulness. But such is life, to some a stage, to others a study.

That is a point I wouldn't mind discussing at this time and strangely enough, it reminds me of a book which I loathed but had to read on more than one occasion. The book, exactly, is not important, but the fact that a book reminded me of this, that this was written into a book, is entirely relevant. Writing is done, generally, in solitude, no one watching each brushstroke. The actual watchfulness comes into play when the act of writing is over, so to speak. I write a poem and I hand it to someone. My part completed before my reader's part has begun. It is not unlike a CD in music; the musician has his studio, makes his recording and eventually, someone else listens to it. The writer has his study, scribbles his intentions and eventually, someone else will read it. In both cases, you could stop and retain what you have for yourself, fuck the other people, its something you wrote for you.

In music, however, you perform for people, they see you play and marvel along with you at what you have done. They appreciate it in multiple ways and something new comes into the mix. With writing such is not the case. You could attend a writer's reading, but how many people really associate the reading with the writing in the same way they do the concert with the recording?

So back to the book and the brushstroke. The world as a stage, we the actors acting out whatever it is that we want to accomplish. The various objects in our possession are the instruments of our emotions and yearnings. It gets harder and harder to act out the same parts though, and thats when actors move on. Not so simple in life though. Prefer it to be a study myself, with the occasional Peacocks in a row, in line for the party, the meat market. Won't happen that way though.

So what does that mean? Means I'd like to be an extra for a while.

Memory Lane & Davis Avenue