Thought for the Week

This week's thought comes from an interesting MySpace bulletin I received yesterday from another person who grew up in the Troublesome Creek watershed. His nom de web is Wiota, named, I think, after that bustling metropolis south of Exira and on the Cass County side of I-80, nestled between Anita and Atlantic. This bulletin speaks for itself, but if you are a MySpacer and would like to befriend this dude and musician, here is his page.

Date:	Nov 25, 2007 7:57 PM
Subject:	please
Body:	and now i have that awful feeling that the only time i can write something worth a damn is when i'm drunk or high. and the high factor isn't doing much for me these days, which leaves drunk, and i certainly can't be drunk every night of my life. there's a name for that. so is it about sacrifice? courage. do i need the courage to give up my health and sanity to get the muse? if i have any balls will i walk away from safety and wade back out into the deep with the heavy hitters? shit. i'm scared. i want it. this isn't about 12-step groups or delusions. it's real enough. it's not about bukowski or f. scott. i don't pretend to have their skills, no way. it's about doing it. throwing it into the void for accomplishments sake. feeling the void swallow it up silently. sneaking a peek to find it's as blank as you. as anonymous. faceless. black letters from nowhere. it's just that ... when i barter my soul, some love comes back, and i'm a biafran for love. my ego leaks and is in constant need of re-filling. i am a sad man whose becoming desperate to mean something. to my self, mostly. so i could paint an impoverished house or deliver a basket of holiday oranges. i could shovel mashed potatoes at a shelter. DO SOMETHING. I could get off the me-horse and clean up the sickness at the foot of my bed, for i make myself sick with regularity. or, could i tell you about the way my memories make me feel? the way they hold on to me like spider monkeys. the way i can picture it all - north, south, east or west and it's all where i want to be, yet none of those places are where i am. it has nothing to do with romance or unhappiness. this is about death. soul. drunk. drunk in my soul to be muddy on the banks of the bluegrass crick. to run my palms over the rough concrete of main street. to hear the last sad echo of forty year old parades and hear the wind sex the corn in the middle of nowhere. to look through leaded-panes at dusty spaces frought with perfect ghosts and everything i hoped for. it gets worse. it gets worse now. so much worse, as finality becomes clearer. as i can almost count the days until oblivion or worse. will i beg satan for one more glimpse of east division street? can't we make hell in my old basement, where the mold ate the pretty blue paint from the cinder blocks? that would be appropriate. will i beg god to make heaven look like my old bedroom? mustard yellow and danish modern? i want my mark farner poster back. the one where he's wearing the red bellbottoms and the chrome arm bands. i want my fingertips puckered by pool water and my suit all wrapped up in a towel. i want. i want.

Well, folks, I didn't say it would be upbeat, just interesting. Salve!

CRM