It’s a glorious day, aside from the coughing. Anya’s playing with other dogs in the sun, the clouds in the sky are clearly half-arsed afterthoughts, and I have Lemon Jelly in my ears. Not raspberry jam. That’s Kieron’s bag.
Okay, so I’m wearing too many clothes again, the house is still doorless, and I’m still feeling plooky. But still, my mind is on fire with ideas, I HAVE THE TECHNOLOGY to do things like shed brain onto the internet from “the outside” and I am so damn pretty.
So why so angry?
Well, that’s the funny thing. I actually have many good, personal reasons to be angry AND hateful. And I really am, in so many different directions. But I can’t seem to get it out of my system the way I used to.
These used to be the times when I got my best, most emotional, honest and yet balanced writing done. But these days, it just clogs me up. Maybe I’m just very aware of repeating myself – after all, nothing changes, and people are nothing… that is to say, nothing if not repetitive and predictable.
I envy songwriters… there’s an immediacy to a song, a kind of clarity of purpose and a directed focus… you could spend a lifetime and a hundred albums exploring every different aspect of a break-up or some other kind of life fuckery, one bit at a time. But a comic or prose piece, by design, delivers information and emotion in a much denser, more comprehensive burst… unless you’re completely going for decompressed narrative like an Ellis or a Bendis, and that doesn’t work for everything. Human relationships, human interaction, it’s already decompressed enough, you know?
I sit at the computer, mind alive, and can’t help but think there’s more important things to write about than all the petty people shit. But by their nature, these preoccupations preoccupy.
Maybe this is why I’ve taken to just discarding difficult social situations once I feel I’ve done my best by them. I never used to do that. But then, I used to go down with many sinking ships.
Fuck, maybe I’m just growing up.
Maybe now’s the time to really start writing. Now that I can do it when I’m not really angry.
But right now, the sun is beating down, I feel the temperature of my innards growing from God’s great and terrible microwaves, and it’s time to go home.
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