I am a perfectionist because the gods demand the best of me.
so it truly begins.
apologies for the great gulf between this and the last post to have made it here. Planets are moving — rather, celestial objects in my personal microcosm; gears are shifting; the tide is turning; et cetera, et cetera. I am moving forward with a ferocity. The album I’ve been planning to produce, currently dubbed VALE VIRI (“Farewell, Hero”), is on its way. I am making a desperate attempt to complete this by the end of the year — ‘desperate’ being the key word, and I am unashamed — because it simply needs to be done. I shall somehow have to find time to make posts here, which was (is?) supposed to be my ‘FloatstoneHeart’ central hub, but I may scarcely ‘find’ the time, with as much time I’m eating in the endeavour.
These days are good, regardless of what is happening outside my bubble. I honestly feel like I’m going about things the right way, something I have never truly felt before. If I can continue to feel this way, barring the day of headrest here or there, I shall be eternally thankful to all the gods.
My progress is not minimal at this stage. I will be posting a demo shortly.
It is quite beautiful today, feels like the beginning of the end of Summer. Suddenly I felt like saying that.
I still feel like
death warmed up,
one cry from the pull of time
a tear reaching up
turning to freshwater,
down at the bottom of the sky
don’t look for me
if I can’t tell you, I can’t
defend my nature, or
exalt my name; there is
nothing left here for me
there is so much to say, but I find myself afraid of words. I flounder like those poor, silver swimmers on an unexpected expanse of shore; I stumble, I wander towards a nothingness that seems only a little better than what I have done to myself over these twenty-seven years. I suffer because I am not crying. I have forgotten. not a drop of poetry is there - I have feared it away with every new, still dawn.
I don’t know how to express myself now but I cannot put these words where they will be easily accessible: that is, to all of my familiar people. this is all I can do. I must write somewhere. I am suffering, and I have to acknowledge it. I cannot continue to believe that this is not what suffering feels like, though I recognise that there are other, more disturbing and horrible forms in this world.
I closed out a humanity in a struggling age. I could not have mentally survived without such a measure, and I recognise its importance. I have not lived perfectly by any stretch of the imagination, but I am not here to judge myself or weigh my heart against a god’s feather. I lie awake at an hour which would to my normal code seem too late; but rest is for the dead and gone… perhaps not even for them. I suppose you could call this a self-prescribed meditation.
I still have so few words. grasping at ‘reality’ is frighteningly difficult. where am I in relation to Taurus, my unbridled passion?
I have tried to win all the affections of my pen. I have scribbled and scratched out, scribbled and scratched out. relaxed (in a stricter sense, perhaps?) for worthy amounts of time. studied items which could normally charm me or at least bring me creative comfort. opened a page for every facet of my supposed talent. watched a sad film. perhaps it wasn’t sad enough?
perhaps I am forgetting to breathe. I see the illusion of time, and yet I fear for not having enough of it. I worry so much… that I should die before completing any of my work (not just the Opus). this may be the one circumstance bringing me emotion in this time.
tonight, this may be all I am capable of writing. I shall be at work tomorrow. with any luck, publishing this entry may clear up a small patch in a clouded head. I may continue this practice.
did I cover everything?
how long could it possibly take for a person to see himself as an utterly unfeeling creature with naught but a faded memory of emotional response?
things I do not know
whatever is here
has been lost in my dark
in the caustic substance
of ruining ghosts and
runs a deep course, in faraway rock
a road issuing from
things I do not know
are killing me, minds I cannot read
will leave me threadbare
some slight madness
I am lost, and tonight I am not okay wiþ it. days present challenges - þis day haþ taken me over, I truly need a sign to bring me back. Forgive þe madness… I am supremely self-disappointed. I am far from being creatively productive and the subject of time is weighing upon my poor head.
It may be nearly time for an ‘unveiling’ of my blog here. I’ve been working diligently at material for my first album (tentatively “VALE VIRI”). the weather has at last taken a good turn (long winter?), thoughts are coming to me more quickly (keeping more of an open mind, having lost said mind at an earlier date), this page is looking to be a halfwaydecent locus for my work, and my current song — NOLO DE FVTVRO — is still effective (in my own terms). Shall I say it has not lost its luster (?).
Going out momentarily to celebrate my brother’s birthday. I shall return, and hopefully be able to commit to something for the night. Tomorrow is another Day Without Toil as well.
What I have realised about the inner discipline of thinking one’s own thoughts is that good thoughts (‘good’ here meaning ‘creative’ and/or ‘productive’ — not arguing the points of productivity) are made without a mind for careful, politically-correct and ESPECIALLY colloquial phrasing. This is essential. It has taken me some time to realise this, I suppose. But to have ‘go-to’ phrases is in itself… not a good thing. Losing phrases myself, here. Actually, I need to be off, but I’ll be back to finish this Thought.
in my experience, there is no “too much kindness” — people can make “their own mistakes” with or without kindness behind them, beside them, before them, inside them. if anything, there has never been “enough” kindness in the world. why staunch the flow of what little we seem, at times, to have?