As a young and impressionable college student, I sat slack-jawed in Professor Griffith's Literature class at University of Oregon, and he explained life. In all the years since, I haven't read, seen or heard it explained any better. Simply put, we live in a duplicitous world. There is the known. There is the unknown. Just like there are night and day. So I sit and write. My topic: Hope? Or despair? I'll be lucky if I can find a piece of paper.
Listening to a playback before I post another half-baked musical misery tour. Then it hit me. That little bit I liked. Don't just settle. Work on it. Make the parts come to some resolution. Work that lick into a transition. Write some words that fit the phrasing that made you begin in the first place. These are things I can do. They require time, and effort. Aww hell. Think I'll just post the piece of crap. And end it.
When I was young, words flowed like stale beer on Sunday morning. I wrote pages and pages of lyrics, and some of them were good. Now, not so much. It's like I was driving all night, and came over a rise, and saw my destination in the soft light of the setting sun. And inspiration washed over me like a little wave on the social security beach. And I begin to write the song that will re-define all songs. And then I realize; "it's only words." But words are all I have. Shit. Stole another one.
The making of the music is really for the young, the single, or the chronically unemployed. I can't get anything done in less than three hours. And then people are wanting to know just what the hell is so important that I can't come out for dinner. "The red light, I say, the red light is on!"
I will admit to posting material that is flawed, incomplete or otherwise unworthy. While driving down the road I hear the part or correction I should have done. But then I go "Naw. Too much work." Then I see something sparkely, and chase after it.
All things raw and rocky