That's not true, in the past couple weeks, this room has fostered the creation of THREE acrylic paintings (none of them finished yet, unfortunately) and at least a few hours of solid trumpet practicing... yet, when it has come to writing lately, I've been a void.
So today, I went to Merlin's Rest, where I sang sea shanties with Will, Alexa, and the rest of the shape note crew, or at least the ones that I know. It was fun (the first song they sang when I got there was General Taylor, which I know from my favorite Great Big Sea album). It's a slippery slope indeed, and the next thing I'll know, I'll be singing shapes on Tuesdays. They are all so nice, so open with hugs and acceptance, and the beauty, history and culture that the songs hold hits me in my core with every closing harmony.
I just saw a giant bug crawl by. Erin saw a bug this week, and said, "Ew, I hate ear wigs." I didn't think ear wigs existed up here, and the thought of them is terrifying. Ew. I hate ear wigs.
After singing I stayed at Merlin's, read a little bit from one of the zines I bought at Boneshaker, and then wrote a letter for the first time in a while over a tall glass of Pimms. Mmmm, Pimms, a summer drink made with Gin, oranges, strawberries, apples, mint and cucumbers.
From there, my writing energies still bubbled, but I knew that if I came back here, they'd allude me yet again, so I went to the C.C. Club for the first time. Pretty cool. Lots of bikes outside. Tattoos. Cake on the jukebox. I wrote another letter, and then became absorbed in a zine called, "The Last Words of a Fucking Asshole." Now, the cadence of the author's candid narrative still courses through my head.
Because it's so personal, and HAND WRITTEN, I feel the urge, a need even, to write back. Letters come easy to me, and I want to zine back and say, "I love the sound my bike makes when it doesn't shift right too, and I know what it feels like to be swept away by those fits of mania, can we get together and talk about seratonin some time?"
And this after only tonight expressing in letter one that I didn't like how my experience of zines thus far has mostly been people with creative illusions that think their lives are amusing... while at the same time struggling with the idea that my very own core philosophy rests on the necessity to share our stories, no matter how trivial.
I have a big day tomorrow, what with work and wooing, but I don't want to sleep. I'll find something to do. South Park, for example.
