Baring my teeth a little at midnight, once again, a station of the clock that has been tending to tumble heedlessly into the two-ish, ante meridiem, territory. No good. So why write? To turn the page, mainly, I’m sick of looking at my little ray of sun (the blog is my browser’s home page). Valentine’s Day is over, time for all us box-dwellers to get back on our heads. It’s that time of things, the new year is starting to get stale, and it’s time for taxes, flexible health care spending account remittance, and similar delights of the grown-up world. I’ve been slogging the finances for three hours and love is not in the air.
Actually I’ve been itching all day to scratch at my favorite topic, which might be called something like “I used to be really certain I was going to come upon a clear purpose for my life eventually”. Itching and letting that itch fester: I don’t want to talk about it any more. I used to be certain about a lot of things, big deal. Yesterday I wrote a song that about filled an 8.5 by 11″ notebook page and consisted almost entirely of just seven words, repeated. You can get away with this kind of shit when you’re forcing yourself to “come up with something” every day, nevertheless, somewhere in the midst of it I definitely had an “all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” moment. I’ve been tending to short, pessimistic lyrics about general discontent.
Over
Nothing’s really ever over
so it appears
Not a dozen not a hundred
not a thousand years
not ends of days
of city states
no end of deadlines
or apocalypse dates
Though it all be drawn
into the swollen sun
yet still it will not yet be done.
originally posted at spiritofsalt.com Feb 17, 2009 at 12:39 AM
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