Not Why, Specifically, But...

When...do you write...

Often when...I want to collect my thoughts, when they're ricocheting 'round like a sonorous gargle of pinballs, whizzing and jutting, such that it sets on this delerious preoccupation with describing each nagging cloud of contemptlation with evocations of noise and...color and music...before the disipate.

It's when I want to lasso these musings, yank them down, inhale their various essence, bring them through, into words.

My only kind of music.

Or...(when) I write to ease frustration - particularly that unique irk wound when my brain is disappointingly empty, yearningly inert.

Idleness is madness. Better, then, to write madly...
...to find (some) sanity. I don't want to lave my page, milled, rendered or digitized, ...unmarked. Incorrigible.

The illusion (oh, alright, delusion) is that you'll find, grasp, surmise, understand the real-me at the end of the sentence. But my elusive victory of cobbled-anonymity is -
-that the sentences never end.

Why, then, do I write?

Why do you record? Sing? Make noise?

Saturday becomes Sunday


A Block Party




 
~But then,...
Saturday Looks Good To Me:



 Sun 05-20 - Ypsilanti, MI - Woodruff's



w/ Body Holographic and Santa Monica Swim & Dive Club


Doors 7 pm