I'd like to report that I've taken my new non-journaling time and turned it into actual artistic expression but I can offer nothing that concrete. I've been letting my mind relax, and I think that's been the right thing. The artist's subconscious is a reservoir and mine was in need of refilling. I say artist because of my pretensions not my accomplishments and I wish you would get over that. I wish I would get over that. Now armed with unexpressed experience I find I have things I want to write. Prose mostly, not movies yet, but prose is a start. I'd settle for some really nice prose.
I am changing internally right now. Caterpillar in repose. Butterfly before waking. Motivation is not unknown to me any longer and my failings feel more and more temporary. This is all happy news.
There were all sorts of things I wanted to write yesterday but I'm holding back. Holding back so that it can percolate inside me like gourmet java and then be poured forth in another form. I've been spewing out sugar for almost a year now, simple and digestible, the simplest form of sweet. I have caramel aspirations (Second time I've used that, word of the day!) and there's no time like the present to heat up the pan and dump in the white stuff. School and work feel transitory, less important steps on my path towards emergence from the larval stage.
There are things I have to do. Most immediately I must wash and go to the salt mines. I think I will write there instead of surfing the Internet. During the downtimes I mean, I'm a good worker, really I am, but there's a lot of waiting. Waiting is empty time that must be used for something productive. Time is of the essence. The world doesn't have enough of it as it is. After that there are all sorts of tasks to be completed. Shooting and editing. Writing and editing. Music to be searched out (There are GAPING holes in my library, mostly of classic rock, blues, and contemporary indie underproduced stuff. I'm not asking for recommendations because I hate music recommendations for the most part, just noting the quest.) Life to be lived. In February I may be moving in with a friend in some godforsaken neighborhood where fat white boys are hunted for sport. Probably not. It would be exciting, you'd have to give it that.
I hope to be posting my fiction up here shortly. People have expressed interest and I need to get used to sharing. I'm not a good sharer. The decision to journal less seems to have been a good one. Expect less random pontification and weighty dissertation. I have little enough energy to write as it is and I can't be expending it on causes that are only half worthy. There's a brick wall out my window and I'm seeing it in a whole new way. Revelations come to me in sections, Christmas toys with some assembly required and no instructions provided.
Living is a full time job and it's one we must all do well. Everything else is, in essence, gravy. My mental faculties might be degraded, I might be insane right now, there've been fumes and unusual instances of forgetting and all sorts of sad sorry things that should leave me down, but every breath stays sweet and inside I am truly madly deeply convinced that I shall soon begin to glow. How soon? I don't know exactly what the word means but I'd give it a couple years just to be safe. If I haven't taken your breath away, made you laugh, re-arranged your thinking, said something beautiful in 900 days you can abandon ship. I'd understand that. Until then I ask that you please hold and I'll get back to you with something great. Honest I will, honest I will. Operators are standing by.