Sprawled out on the floor in my mind, this night was dedicated to quantities of red wine and existential disquiet, the birdsong through radio speakers and our fluttering images intersect despite different external worlds as we lived and we died. Deep philosophical inquiry and the tasteless buzz of a ambient merlot, my fingers smell like nickel wound strings, that gentle polish coating the fret board and this open sexual relationship with my guitar is not something to be ashamed of. I equate improvised music with the way I tend to write most naturally. It is all smashed up, colorful phrases and licks, interlaced with realities and daily lives lived, those exhausted battles that last only a couple minutes, the tired fingers and horrible posture, avant gardener, doesn’t know what to do when his flowers wilt and die, that the seeds have no fresh water source and the energy required to lift arms high even to get god’s attention turns out not to be worth it. Reach for the bottle instead.
Today it was insomnia but the negative. An inability to keep awake, alert. Constant distraction and so much beautiful music and literature. Those multiple personalities and the logical evacuation of thought. Years of fire poured into a single cup.
How could I direct my thoughts enough to create a decent image of myself? This mirror is fractured and so is the earth when it quakes and starts, you’re in a forest and trees shift their weight to fall closest to your heart.