A Day Here in LaLa
So yea, here I am, not doing a thing, writing nothing, listening to the Velvet Underground, and thinking that it is all right. It is late and I have accomplished not a thing.
I set out this morning to do some writing, and I just wasted a lot of time watching videos of how to write, like I don't already know. Had to switch to WinAmp and Shoutcast Radio, 'cause last.fm sucks. I like music to much, it is fuel, but often not for any quality in writing.
What I want is a pastoral life, living in a small community, where I tend to my gardens (and animals) while I entertain myself with a small radio that only plays good music that I like, is that to much to ask.
I do what I have to do to get by, work as I must to pay the bills, work with the land to eek out a little food and fortune, and sometimes write a few lines in an old ratty notebook. I love not to easy, but I hope I still make up for it in the quality of the love I do provide. I am often cold and wrapped in the sounds of silence, or the darkness of my own emptiness. You ask me what I think, and I stare blankly at the sky, I just don't know what to say.
I'm looking for a patron, someone who will feed my children while I waste away into the void of malcontent. What I was seeking is nothing like what I am looking like today. An old man who pushes too may keys.
Somewhere under this dirt is gold for sure, little flakes of foolishness. I will not turn it to prove that, no I will bury it in more shit, and hope that hope springs forth fruitful from the disinterest I take.
My problem is that I read the works of so many of these writers that seem to write stuff for all these publications, and wonder how the hell did they do that. What degree did they have to get to get that post, and where can I bend that light a little too.
I set out this morning to do some writing, and I just wasted a lot of time watching videos of how to write, like I don't already know. Had to switch to WinAmp and Shoutcast Radio, 'cause last.fm sucks. I like music to much, it is fuel, but often not for any quality in writing.
What I want is a pastoral life, living in a small community, where I tend to my gardens (and animals) while I entertain myself with a small radio that only plays good music that I like, is that to much to ask.
I do what I have to do to get by, work as I must to pay the bills, work with the land to eek out a little food and fortune, and sometimes write a few lines in an old ratty notebook. I love not to easy, but I hope I still make up for it in the quality of the love I do provide. I am often cold and wrapped in the sounds of silence, or the darkness of my own emptiness. You ask me what I think, and I stare blankly at the sky, I just don't know what to say.
I'm looking for a patron, someone who will feed my children while I waste away into the void of malcontent. What I was seeking is nothing like what I am looking like today. An old man who pushes too may keys.
Somewhere under this dirt is gold for sure, little flakes of foolishness. I will not turn it to prove that, no I will bury it in more shit, and hope that hope springs forth fruitful from the disinterest I take.
My problem is that I read the works of so many of these writers that seem to write stuff for all these publications, and wonder how the hell did they do that. What degree did they have to get to get that post, and where can I bend that light a little too.
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