16 January
A Writer’s Note
There was always that one kid against the fence. If it was a guy, there was probably a trumpet case at his feet and he wore strangely scuffed shoes, because he avoided the foot traffic on sidewalks and walked instead through weedy lots with dogs yipping at him…He almost certainly became a writer.
-Excerpt from Anne Lamott’s book Bird By Bird
And I most Certainly have. That was me against the fence, on lean. Posted up; scuffed shoes and all. No trumpet though. Beating on my chest and beatboxxing was more my style…a bass fanatic.
Being a Writer is strange, a rare course indeed. Writing is a blessing and a noble gift. It brings honor and pride to soulful satisfaction. The challenge is to find appropriate venues for sharing creative expression with the world. The first it’s internal, a matter of production; getting thoughts written down and then actually sharing them. Overcoming childlike sensitivity of having something So Private, So Intimate, So Erotic, exposed to the public and freely consumed. Then there is the question of audience and representation—what will people think of you after reading your twisted thoughts and then dealing with conscious’ constant questioning of how, why and for who. These are the inquisitions that cause moments/sessions of temporary paralysis; then it comes back, presence. Breathe, remember to breathe. Eventually these questions and timid sensations get pulled off somehow, stepped over and left behind like clothes on a bedroom floor during the steam blur of a first time sex. No more solo play, someone’s in the room and they can see you, feel you, even smell you (did you shower?), touch and be touched by you…. See what I mean by strange.
Now, to make space in these contemporary times, owning your Private, Intimate, Erotic Exposure AND sharing it—with people, real human beings, normal folk. There is a surge of writers and word fiends finding freedom by means of microphone, particularly open mics. Script coupled with projection; performance, it’s a great facility—return of the scop, the bard, the oral historian, the Moorish poet.
Maturation of phonic fascination, High (in)Fidelity, I have a fetish for these words. Writing turns me on; the blood flows, I swell—thick—like an engorged leech. Vulgar as it sounds and Rude as it may be, im jus sayin…THAS the extent to which I feel this, THAS how real this is to me. Banana clip—Fully Loaded and Over Exposed, can you dig it? If so get wittit. Interact with it, Hate it, Love it, Over Analyze and Fantasize bout it.
My dedication is to capture the rapture of the present while pushing into the future while defining the future by pressing bounds beyond limit. There is a heritage, a regal genealogy, which is to be respected. Building upon legacy, an updated formula to craft; I am the New Traditionalist.
WordSmith at the WorkBench—Grind through haunting hours—Honed skills exercise demons—Pent up thoughts explode loads like semen—scripture flows—pen to pad—gifted prose—Tools of the trade—proper tailored for craft—Ms Kentucky, Amber Brown, empties the glass—white papers and blue grass—coffee black as a Mas’as favorite piece of ass—sweet aint it—Furious flight Pattern…Beware the Nighthawk
Writers write,
So here I am, pen in hand—me and my words…inviting you, pull up a seat at the table.
Make yourself comfortable.
Please Do
Thirteen
the LIFESTYLE 