Too Old for Rock & Roll/violence

Hmmm, just noticed MySpace gobbled up a couple of my posts again.  I really need to get the self-hosting going.

Had a Remora show last night.  Out until 2am & then driving an hour home to unload the car just isn’t as fun as it used to be.  Maybe it’s that I’ve let myself get out of shape or maybe I’m getting too old for rock & roll.  I couldn’t do much today.  So I need to try to get a lot done tomorrow.  If I can pull my act together & get six uninterrupted hours of work in then I’ll be doing good.  When’s the last time that happened?

So here was my big problem with the show last night.  The one band had a guest list of 20 people!  & all 20 of those people stood outside while the first band played, came in for their friends, & then took off before the band even put their equipment away.  That is not cool.  If you are on a guest list you should have to sit through all the lousy music & if you want to leave early you should need to pay an extra fee.

I randomly found one of my notebooks from when I was writing a lot (I used to write at least two pieces of really short fiction everyday), & I’m thinking about trying to get my head back in that space of creating tons of intellectual property.  It was strange, because I didn’t remember the stories I read at all & it felt like I was reading someone else’s journal.  The kind of thing that makes me feel like I’m an alien in my own skin, which is interesting & neither pleasant or unpleasant as much as factual.

ultra-short-fiction installment 1 (apologies to m gira (like an infant i still worship him))
I’m weak & powerless.  I remember it didn’t wasn’t always this way.  I once was a real & actual man.  A man who could let his violence do the talking so that his mouth could rest.  The threat of violence was in every motion from a single step to drinking a sip of water.  The violence was pure & clean & real.  The violence solved everything.  It was what made the world turn.  Life was simple & dumb & good.  Now I’ve been sucked into the machine.  Blinded into believing in civility.  Believing in emotion over action.  Thinking about things instead of doing things.  So my body has atrophied as well as my real mind & real self.  So I am not even a ghost of myself, but a counterfeit image.  I’m erasing my real self by staying alive.  But I remember once wishing on a star for this.  Wishing to not be unique or special.  Wishing to be an expendable part of society.  Wishing for less instead of more.  I hold on to this memory because it makes me think my new found weakness is somehow good.  That weakness is better than strength & apathy is better than violence.  I will hold onto this memory that I am great & good & strong because through acts of my will I have made myself weak & useless.

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