Monday Morning Post Script 8.1.11

Things are all we understand because that’s all we can see. You can’t see something like love. But maybe I’m wrong, maybe you can and it’s just me who’s blind. However, I can tell you this whether or not I have lost my ability to write, what we’ll call swag for now, I will not cease in the attempts. It’s a personal philosophy that if you keep trying to do something that you fail at, you may just become the most successful person to ever participate in said activity.

So with fear of sounding whiney, I will speak my mind. Ok, here goes… where the hell have you been? And why are you reaching out? It’s not that I don’t mind, I’m just a bit fucking bewildered by it. I was working on being on my best behavior and trying to bury it all deep down inside, but here it is, right in the forefront.

But that’s whiney, because if I could be honesty, which I seem rarely capable of being, I would tell you that it’ s almost always there. It’s a perpetual thought that I carry with me every day. It’s become lighter but I only believe that’s because I’ve got a long way to carry it. I’ve wondered if it would last a life time, and decided that may be the coolest thing I ever do, depending of course on other circumstance. If I am a huge success in my life and have all of those things that most people want so bad like wealth and property and fame, but still ache for something from the climax of my teen years so much that nothing else will ever quite sooth anything at all good enough. I think that’s cool. I’m also a fucking loser, so there is that to consider.

Why did I really write this? Attention mostly, and partly to appease the audience. Without them I am nothing and despite admitting to the occasional accumulation of klunkers, I should and would like to make happy readers. I want to get out of bed in the morning. I want a lot of things. Whine.

There is one thing that I can tell you about that won’t be complaining. I left my body the other day, I think. I was stoned, zooted, blazed, toasted or in the layman’s term, high as a motherfucker and jamming out with my band. Yeah, I’m in a band. We haven’t played a show, but we do rock, so you can lick the tip. We were playing a song I wrote. It was the jam part. I was soloing. I may have made Duane smile in his grave, not to seem like I’m bragging. It’s a pretty good song, especially the drum part that Harold does at what I guess I’ll call the bridge. The guitar parts are probably the coolest I’ve ever come up with. The one bass part is the only bass line I have ever written. The words are half from a sunny afternoon a few weeks ago and the other half from a poem I wrote at the beginning of summer. Just thought I’d share. We’ll record it, or you can just ask me to play it.


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