(This is a blog from about a year ago, November 2011. I thought I would recycle it. Regurgitate it. What-have-you.)
Write what you want to read. Be your own damn self.
Think about what you are, everyone you’ve loved and known in your life, every desire you’ve had, every dream you’ve made manifest, and decide for once and for all which things move you.
Hold those parts. Scribble them on scraps of paper, in notebooks, on envelopes of bills you never plan on paying. Pile your scraps of paper up until something sticks, then run with it.
If it’s not fun, writing and music, what’s the point? Tell me.
You don’t have to put a gun to my head to make me do any of this. Sometimes, when I think of money, and the lack thereof, I want to scream. But it all works out, it always works out, in spite of all the wants I don’t really need fulfilled. I get fed. I have a place to sleep.
When you find yourself hiding in the corner, your own voice, your own muse, when you start trusting yourself to make decisions, your mind bursts open. A crystal geyser explodes in you. Maybe it’s somewhere on the corner of Market and Sanchez. It’s not really like anything you’ve ever seen before.
Suddenly, you are out in the wilderness riding a white unicorn. You’re discovering kingdoms with – hello! – mermaids and dragons. Double rainbows and all that silly cliche stuff that makes you cringe. Except it’s happening to you, so it’s not so bad.
Jukeboxes suddenly play the kind of music you actually want to hear (for me something complex, beat heavy and ambient). Everything feels smooth and succinct. Strange things happen, like you meet people all of a sudden who you’ve been looking for for ages. You are about to come full circle. You suddenly have a life that blows your mind.
Talk to your muse. Give it a spot to sit, an altar with candles. Offer it chocolate. Give it a place and a date. Let it scribble. Let it draw in circles. Let it not make sense. Let it not be planned. Beautiful splendid poignancy often comes from complete and seemingly utter chaos.