I’ve written before on having nothing to write. And I’ve written a lot before about trying to write, about starting to write, and then… nothing. Nothing happens.
I’ve become the thing I dislike the most—words with no actions. I’ve talked a lot about words that I intend to write, and then don’t write them. Or I make it look like I’ve written them.
I’m still in Reykjavík—for fuck’s sake—still on my first day of a three week trip that I took almost two years ago. How does this happen? Well—it’s just a lot… And as I’ve often thought, I think that’s the point. Just pile on the lot—keep what can flourish buried under the lot…
Sometimes I think and feel a painter has it easy. They can paint for painting’s sake, their pigments looked upon as colours on a canvass, seen for the colours they might be, for the feelings they might evoke, for the scenes they might represent. Meaning becomes entangled in form, and interpretation fills in the gaps. Is it art? Of course it is—it’s a painting. It automatically qualifies. Is it saying anything? Well that’s the luxury of the media—even if it isn’t, or isn’t saying it well, it can be dismissed as “bad art” …but it still counts.
I paint with words when I write, the same way I paint with light when I take pictures. I put them on paper the way I do because they please me being in that order. The thoughts they evoke are a consequence of the arrangement. They are my notes, my music to my eyes.
I never knew
The sky could burn a hole into my empty head
I never knew
A smile could turn us into enemies instead
Oh, the never‐ending bliss of moments that you missed
Returning back like waves for second tries at luck
The luck you didn’t have back then but now that it don’t matter much
It’s easy love
And strangers acting like your oldest friends
It’s just a lot, it’s just a lot
I wanna hold onto the innocence I got
It’s just a lot, it’s just a lot
I wanna care for all the little things I got
I should have seen the signs
Clovers starting dying in the field
I shouldn’t be surprised
When all the sudden all of it is real
Oh, I tried to write a book but I misunderstood what I had seen
And so the story made no sense
And stories all depend on whose perspective you prefer
Is it an I or is it her
And does it matter in the end
It’s just a lot, it’s just a lot
I wanna hold onto the innocence I got
It’s just a lot, it’s just a lot
I wanna care for all the little things I got
I saw a film
And cried ’cause beauty has a way of crushing me
I took a pill
And sighed ’cause I’ve done things against which I believe
Oh, I think of you at night when my mind won’t stay quiet
And I’ve got someone sleeping peacefully at home
But peace don’t reach my bones
The sadness still remains and though I sing the same refrain
It all amounts to no one knows
It’s just a lot, it’s just a lot
I wanna hold onto the innocence I got
It’s just a lot, it’s just a lot
I wanna care for all the little things I got
You get it right
You get it wrong
It never stops
It’s just a lot
I didn’t return to school this year because I couldn’t afford it. I’ve decided to tackle the mess of my past instead. The poor decisions I’ve made, the action and inaction that set my fate—all of it is getting clean up, piece by piece, debit by debit. I don’t care what that makes me. I don’t care anymore. I just don’t. The bonds, the constructions, the fabrications, the entire performance… The empire woven around me ceases to matter a little more as each day passes. And as each day passes, I know I’m one day closer to being free from it all.
As one of my impermanence biscuits says: Cleaning up the past will always clear up the future!
So, once more unto the breach, dear friends. Cry havoc—!
To the future—the undiscovered country—where there is treasure everywhere.
p.s. — Bonus points to all who know the context of the above…