When I was writing songs as part of my employment repertoire, and to a lesser extent even when mixing music for narrative, I never considered myself remotely brilliant; if anything, only blessed. Then I had no choice but to believe in myself, to exude as much confidence as I was able. That bravado gave me the courage to say yes to a client asking for a song from scratch in less than 24 hours, and the wisdom to know when no was the right and only answer.
false bravado in fact, I was quite often scared to death that my last
tune would truly be my last. I had no idea where my ability came from,
how the ideas formed, in what closet I stored the words I'd end up
pulling from a hat when I needed them.
It's one thing to write
if, when and on what topic I choose; and quite another to write on
command, when the difference between approval and rejection is measured
in real dollars and cents and not just broken dreams or mildly hurt
But both types of writing have the same effect on me as
it concerns tomorrow; I fear I'll never again write what even I would
care to read, that I'll never, on reading back something I've penned,
think the words profound, stylish, complex or even simply clever. I
assume one day, likely this day, whoever gave me this gift will take it
back, that the deal made with the devil when I was born will have run
it's course and now I'll need to pay for my time in the light with a few
bars of darkness and void.
It's not an everyday thing, but often
enough to skew my emotional obsession about my contribution to the art
world. I know there had to have been some contract signed by my parents
perhaps, with a nameless otherworldly figure who offered creativity in
return for certain sections of my brain, randomly selected over time, to
toy with for it's amusement. It's either that or I'm actually crazy and
it's my insanity that fuels my fantasies. Yea, like that's possible...
sure my oft desire to be dead let's say, makes me more likely to pen
inventive suicide notes masquerading as cries for help, and long,
descriptive regrets that dig so far into my past that even I can't
figure out in what century they happened, and in turn, who could
possibly be that freakin sorry for that freakin long.
No doubt I
feel as if with only a few hours left to live, and a few months worth
of things left to say, I need to hurry it along a bit; in case I
actually do the big bang in the near future. This would explain my
prolific nature, or at least my verbosity. And the regret idea fits into
the "overwrought anxiety for no real reason" mold, a page to every
overdramatized emotion, and an overdramatized emotion to every page. If
all this fits together as it appears to, I'd not be creative if not for
the fact that I'm nuts...a pact with the devil if I ever heard one.
lack of memory seems to be a part of every problem; I forget the last
time I was stupid enough to write directly on line where incremental
saves are unlikely, and so I re-commit myself to the same silly yet
painful mistake over and over; the erasure of another godlike work in
And my big dumb ox thing seems to be a blessed curse
along the same line, a "must have been preordained by signatures in
blood" sort of affectation. I am deeply in tune with honesty for
example, not so much because I'm a purist or even a moralist of some
sort. It's mostly that I forget how much it hurts when people hate me
for saying what I actually think in deference to a creative modification
of the truth based on what I think they think. Had I any memory
at all, I'd be ducking and clucking just like the majority of humans,
damned afraid of the next sharp stick in the eye to come my way in
punishment for words I could easily have kept under lock and key.
like everything I've done of a creative bent is tied to my wierdness,
and that in turn is tied to contractual events (if I'm right) beyond my
control; and all this being the case, the fact that I can
write/sing/draw/scratch my butt and chew gum at the same time, is gifted
to me by some unseen force that could at any moment withdraw the offer.
all too real, this fear of being struck stupid, talentless and
tasteless in one fell swoop. I really do wonder every time I hit "turn
off computer" whether the next time I switch back on it'll be only
electronics that fire up, and for my part I'll stare at the screen and
drool at the purdy pitchur in the 17" plastic frame.
it when you see it, particularly if I'm writing verse. If ever I rhyme
"faint" with "Hank" for instance, know that I'm washed up and delete me
from your friends list before you feel nothing but pity, or worse,
annoyed boredom. If you see "faint" followed by "paint" or "'aint", and
"Hank" with words like "crank" and "skank", feel safe to read on as my
benefactor has allowed me one last profoundly creative moment, before
stripping me of all redeeming value. Wouldn't it be funny if it was
right after writing about losing my artistic insight, that I'd lose my
His name was Hank, he loved a skank,
he paid her with an ounce of crank
Nope....I guess I'm still ok so far.