“When we were young, we heard our mothers! When we were young, we heard our fathers! We ran across the meadow and ran up the tree and plucked out an apple and we fell down into some grotesque image of someone else’s vision. And then the poet took his knife and cut up the sacrifice on his page and he stabbed every place where some sort of meaning dripped out.”
Great job. Cut right there. No, that’s good. Why edit it? Why would we do that? Yeah, let’s lay a track of pounding bass on this track–and maybe some lilting piano too, I am a yes-nonsense sort-of-guy, so let’s make that piano go bonkers. Here, ladies and gentlemen, we have true inspiration; true art. We have the song lyric. I just wrote that up there.
The only music I have been spending my time with is Thursday Afternoon, a sixty-minute ambient piece that goes nearly nowhere written by our very good friend, Brian (Ego). It does not intrude with any form whatsoever of a foreign idea. It blocks out the stupid voices of people that just had to be here in this coffee shop when I was. Don’t they know that I am trying to write here?
I feel like the only prerequisite to writing meaningful lyrics is to have the two words “vision” and “sacrifice” strewn across the verses. And the vocalist has to present these two words crisply. As for the rest of the words–banana.
Last night, I watched a movie where all of the heroes died. It would have been a satisfying end, had the movie not been a narrative pieced together by ideas. These days, I am less impressed by the process of ideas-narrative than I am by narrative-ideas. Admittedly, it seems like the second process produces ideas “without the intention of the author.” If an author writes a story because he first thought of a story, he will see how the tiny fibers of the narrative that kept it tight in his mind were actually formed by even tinier fascicles, juiced by conceptual mitochondria. I would say that it actually takes much more skill to collect enough fibrous ideas to sew a narrative together. But the man that wakes up one day and says, “I want to tell a story” and only later discovers that he actually made some sort of declarative statement in the end about an idea that was never explicitly stated in the story–that man probably approaches his craft with more humility than the man that is all, “yeah bro, I got cool ideas…pfft…and you?”
But I am just being silly really and these are all ideas. And ideas are hard. This is a journal–one I write in thirty minutes–and you probably just want to know about my life. No silly business–all right?– just give it to me straight-up. Well, okay.
I woke up today at ten. I had no breakfast, because there is a food truck on set that usually arrives at 11:30. My friend, Nikko, stayed over last night because he is working on the movie and we stayed up until about one playing video games. I got picked up at 11:15 and was driven onto the set, which is about five minutes out of town. There were no clouds today. It was beautiful, which is unfortunate because the scenes we are shooting are supposed to be cloudy. The only snow around is crouching in piles behind the shadows of trees or, if they can make it in time before the sun comes up, in a shadow corner of a building.
I was reading the script before shooting while two kids who are both under five sat on either side of me, eating lunch. They were adorable and so of course I asked them how their school is going. The little boy told me that he learned about the whole bible today and, upon further questioning, he told me that Mary was very old when she gave birth and that Moses wrote the entire Bible. He also told me that he learned about the “holy cheeseburger,” but he was being silly and his sister knew it, so she came around and whispered in his ear, “No, the holy ghost.” And so he said, “Oh, okay” and then told me about the “holy cheeseburger” again. She came around to punch him with her little fists and they both laughed hysterically while she punched him. And then their mom came over and told them to eat their lunch and so I felt guilty and left that scene un-captured by a film camera.
I was on set until five today and I was dropped off at this coffee shop so I could write this journal, work on a longer project I have been procrastinating on, and send out an email to a collection I am part of called MOTHERSHIP. MOTHERSHIP is a community and a writing group and a fellowship. We used to call it a brotherhood, but a girl recently joined us and changed our whole perspective on it. I am going to send the email and tell them to do things they don’t want to do, but things I want them to do.
Another friend sent me an email about a Writer’s Consortium that I was obliged to join because, well, I am a writer (unfortunately, there are a lot of stigmatas surrounding the term). And now that I am part of this Consortium, I feel like I have more credence to sit someone down for a conversation and make them only talk about what I am interested in.
I had other ideas for things to write about today: how we are just shades hidden in a wall, the rushing of a thousand black birds above a white-washed barn, the affluence of vocabulary, the passing generations, and the impending escalation of celebrity personalities, but eh.