It occurs to me that not everything needs to be shared in a public forum. Of course, there's the online journal blargh, the kind of thing that rambles endlessly and shows you its pancakes and straw-grabbed political joystickery. But then there's the art part, the shit that we're supposed to just poo out and have it look majestic, or at least be quaffable as evidence of artistic method. I guess I'm a little bit cautious with that stuff, or at least have been for the past month whilst steaming away my glands and soldered shoulders, here in the lush huzz of crickets and sultry-dogged New England. I prefer silence these days, silence in the lack of interference or personal wriggling on farce books and other corporate lassoed meme-huts. Okay, a tweet or two, sure. Maybe an instant graham here or there, to let friends know that I still cough like a fish out of water. But shit, when I'm out on my bike later today, do I need to pack an iPhone and burp out the grind of a podcast or some echo chamber of locusts? I could, but I do that every year, and every year I delete these files, because, fuck an A, does the world need to know? Maybe. Maybe there's a worthy echo chamber to pursue when the weather snaps and I'm thinking in terms of less haze and more grazing. Right now though, I'm hopelessly romanticizing the silence, as it's not really silence. My head is busier than ever and I'm bursting with busted duct taped seams, craving and lusting, but not giving a damn about sharing it. But anyway, off to the trail. I'll fill you in with spurious details when the yawn departs and there's an itch to press a button again.
No comments:
Post a Comment