Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Frank's Apartment - The Mourning Of?

Waking up in his apartment was always a bitch.

No matter how much Frank danced with Mary Jane the night before, the vodka would always remind himn that he was mortal.

So, very, very mortal.

In addition to feeling particularly vulnerable on a Friday morning, Frank got a text message from his parents.

His older brother, the one who gave him the brown recliner, tried to commit suicide the night before.

"Who the fuck DOES THAT?"

Not commit suicide. But TELL someone their brother TRIED to commit suicide by way of a FUCKING TEXT MESSAGE?

Frank was outraged with no real outlet; same situation, different day.

The red LED clock burned a crisp "7:42 A.M." into Frank's skull as his fingers trembled to find the familiar pipe he's kissed for comfort a million times before. "WHERE THE FUCK IS THAT THING?!"

Nervously shaking, Frank lit his pipe. "Fuck, it's not even noon yet. What the FUCK is wrong with me?! Is it too early? Is there such thing as "too early" anymore? Does anything even matter anymore," he wondered.

Fuck it. Frank felt more alone now than he ever had before. At this point in life he realized if you don't make your own rules, someone else will.

It was still just a little before noon, but things like this didn't matter anymore. Frank did his best to get a few shots of whiskey down and find himself two bowls deep before accidentally dropping his pipe on the linoleum floor of his apartment and shattering the only lady he'd ever truly loved, his "Glass Goddess".

Just because a coffin wasn't needed this time, didn't mean the irony of having a shattered family was lost on Frank.

Why'd he check his texts? Why'd he leave his beautiful, brown chair in his apartment? Why'd he have to do anything he didn't want to do today? Worthless, no good day.

Things were so much easier hours ago. Can they ever go back to being that way again?

As he light a hand-rolled cigarette, the smoke engulfed his glasses and he gently set the Hi-Fi needle onto a particular vinyl album that spoke to his damaged heart only the way music could.

Maybe it's time to clear some things up and call his family tomorrow to talk about it all...maybe...

The Writing Process At Night

Psst...psst...are you awake?

You're in your warm bed and it's freezing cold outside. There's a soft glow reflecting from your ceiling; it's coming from your phone and a strange feeling of acceptance and empowerment washes over you. You try to shut your eyes tight, count sheep or think about tomorrow's work; but nothing's working because now you have ideas burning through your skull that have to leave before you can find peace in a deep slumber.

It's ALL you can focus on. It's ALL you can think about. No matter how important or how trivial your ideas are, they have to be expelled from your head immediately.

How many hours have you already lost thinking about writing iterations of ingenious philosophical passages over and over again. How many hours have you wasted re-analyzing those "philosophical passages" only to realize they aren't actually anything special because all you really did in college was take a few journalism courses and listen to a few Indie bands before your friends did? How much of your original content "feels" original but is a complete ripoff? And more importantly, how much of your original content is actually fresh? And how much of what you write will be a HUGE failure in the minds of many; and are you confident enough in your writing to share what you have to offer in hopes that SOMEONE, ANYONE will LIKE what you have to say before your words are destroyed and set on fire forever?

In all reality, sometimes inspiration comes to those who wait. Sometimes, it shows itself to the "go-getters"; those who are a little TOO ambitious. But more often than not, the magical parts of writing appear like the Tooth Fairy, in the night, when the writer least expects them to arrive. It's a once-in-a-lifetime (or once-in-a-nighttime) moment that a writer must seize; must get on paper (or computer) before falling asleep again and losing it forever.

There's something to be said about finding a dark room to write in. A truly dark room to empty out your ideas; your thoughts; your words and your once-in-a-moment emotions---and sometimes that room is your own bedroom at 3:13 a.m.

And you write all of this to ultimately realize that if you write from your heart you can NEVER write the wrong thing