Leaving The Mark
I watched a documentary tonight about William S. Burroughs. What a long, tired and bitter life that man lived. He lived and died by the pen and he lived and died in the midst of people he loved. I was never a reader of his works, but his admiration level is off the charts. He shot a lot of guns, he drank a lot of drinks and he smoked a lot of weed - but he had a knack for telling the unbridled truth.
What is it about the truth that we miss? Why can't we get there? Why do we live in such a plastic society of fabricated goodness and sugary-floury life-meaning that revolves around pictures of offspring and salary comparisons? At times, I want to leave this fuckhole of a planet behind.
I've got some new projects on the go. And mark my words, when they come out, they will be a truthful extension of me. I'm not doing it for money or the pleasure of others - I'm doing it so I can sleep at night and know that the words are out there. Sewn. Soil-covered. Creating a root system.
Out of the words, new life arrives.
After all of the tour bus trips across this great, rugged country with talented musicians - and all of the late-night, green room, ice-clinking drinks with songwriting wizards - there is still a longing within me. A longing to convey words. The writing drives me - it pushes me on. Even when I know I will only get less than 5 hours of sleep, I sit by the keyboard and I hope that inspiration will find me once again. Inspiration; a long lost wind that sings of distant galaxies of creativity, lost loves and all of the longing that mixes the cocktail of great art.
I don't just want to pretend to like someone - I want to be fascinated. I want to be transfixed. I want the idea of that person to be coursing through my veins in the wee hours. I want to fart out redemption and spew freedom from the innards of my soul.
I don't want lip service - I want the words to mean something. I always have.
