like the wind...

i'm slowly learning that an artist is a fluid creature, morphing like a wraithe at a moment's notice to fill a void their soul's imprint represents.

lonely estrogen...

two words, i don't know why i combine them. they seem distant friends. i relate to neither on a regular basis and i'm married to both. no more apologies. no more looking back in regret. i have those. i have many. unless it inspires, it (con)spires against me. it is part of that assassin that keeps following me: the failure complex. i've written before about the insanity of feeling like a failure. in this way, i differ from mr paul hewson. i often react in those moments, or fall from reacting. i succomb to a bordem i've created. i desire that honesty would excude from my fingertips. i would wish great personal honesty on all those around me. it is so rewarding when it surfaces , though i feel, if only for a few sacrosanct moments. "only the shallow know themselves"* but i want to know more...i want to be more...i want to dwell within myself and as a result, ignore myself. do i wallow in such fear and loathing that i never make it to the surface to exhibit compassion for others around me? i fear nothing. i am reckless. i am dangerous. i'm a virginal rock scribe, who's still waiting for those breadcrumbs to fall from the table of the greats. where is my rock god to worship?

From the mouth of babes...

A 16 year old high school student reflects on modern music in the Washington Post article, "Hey Jude"? Dude: "'The music industry has turned into a factory that's just churning out stuff,' says Zeke, who's dismissive of most of [today's music]."

30 minutes later...

how does confidence in infantile turn into a premature sense of expectancy? how is it that we as humans have to classify everything? we ruin anything within it's prime by tagging, branding and labeling it. jazz is ruined when i think "oh, that's be-bop". once i've destroyed the mystique, i then proceed to ignore the art. why?

the pen is poised...