I have noticed that I usually think about writing for a few days before i write anything. Its strange but i need to age the idea, the imagery, as if i was brewing beer the pressure build up contributes to the final piece being tasty like a fall lager.
Every writer has a technique to find inspiration and today i think i figure mine out. Whenever i write it is always after a drive. I will be in my car driving and usually hear a song that spurs inspiration. Today it was florence and the machine’s song “are you hurting the one you love”. The core emotions of the song resonated with a lot of my feelings as i approach the on year anniversary of my cross country mind fuck. So anyway i was driving through tiverton and suddenly pulled off into a grassy field as if the want to write was as immanent as the need to pee. The work was going to come out of me weather i wanted to or not, and prolonging this need would only lead to frustration and incontinence later on when im old…or something like that. So pulling into the grassy field i look around to find any scrap of paper i can find in my car. Anyone who knows me knows that there is guaranteed to be paper of some form in my car because its a human land fill. But i’m sure that for me this hunt is just as important to my writing process as a pen or my brain. Searching for something to write on brings a sense of urgency, of importance. Also, the paper that i do find always has something else on it giving it a history. No matter how many journals i buy it will never replace the process i need to start writing.
Not all writing is good after i write it all down. Sometimes its sloppy and childish, full of desire and demands made in my corolla to the sky. Today…im not sure what i wrote was good or not, i don’t think it matters. It just needed to come out, much like the need to pee.
A mattress with no sheets.
The clouds lay heavy in the sky like water logged cotton clothing.
Heavy and dark on the bottom and a blinding shining sun in my eyes.
I had dreams of wearing wedding dresses creamy satin white but when i woke up i found my body alone on a mattress without any sheets.
What a life i have crafted for myself. I lye flat and feel empty all morning.
Sorrow soaked clouds tell me to drive all day and watch the colored trees pass through my vision. just passing through. Just here for the night. I keep telling myself just sleep, just drink. Everything fades and turns around me to rich golden harvest for themselves and i cover myself in mud and trace my outline on my bare mattress, hoping to not feel like the last person to feel the fall breeze. These moments are beautiful desperation to join with the universe and have me wearing rusty purple every day.
Soon there will be snow in my heart for peace of mind that the harvest blew all the broken parts away.