i have a terrifying craving in me to write something incredible. urban, depraved, back-alleyways and graffiti and half-smoked cigarettes and smeared lipstick and crack cocaine and ragged, and incredible. something that would go with that picture with that quote. it's always been about this, once i found that this was my niche: it's always been the goal.

when i sit down and write something i never want to pour my thoughts out into that one particular thing i am writing at that moment, it's always me trying to write that something amazing and i think i am still writing purely because up until this point, i haven't been able to achieve it yet. something, in the creative writing process, breaks me down, or calls for something else, or takes me in a different direction, or i just fall short because i lose inspiration and fall short, but i haven't ever been able to create my personal best, so i keep going.

i keep writing with this one taste at the back of my throat that i can't really describe - a feeling, like, kind of like detroit city and the flourescent faded blue of old photographs, and next in line by meese, and, you know, basically the shit that nylon magazine spits out. and the taste is what pervades my writing, even when i'm talking about the south of france. even when i'm talking about being in love, or girls with pretty hair or making changes or babies.

i guess it directly correlates with how i can only write when i'm moody, or maybe my life is just a series of old beastie boys vinyl records, (ha, there i go again) on repeat and recycle, but i've made it past suicide, and boys fucking up against a wall, and unsanitary club settings with needles shooting up somebody's skin, and mental disease and heartbreak and falling off of skyrises in japan. however, i haven't found it yet, and i am somehow convinced that i will (be able to) stop once i finish what every ~artist~ (though i am in no means dubbing myself one, nor am i even comparing myself to them) wants to accomplish (a masterpiece or whatever the kids are calling it these days).

as long as i keep churning shit out, you can be sure i haven't found it yet. (or, maybe i have, but i won't even realize it until years later when i'm domestic with a ring on my finger and all of my old scraps buried in an attic, and then i'll be like, oh shit this was amazing, i was actually good at this!)

mood_ discontent
music_ next in line - meese (the centennial?)
crave_ what do you think

Labels: contemplation, figuring things out, to-do list, writing