no time to read the latest cormac mcarthy, i’m busy pulling the stuffing out of my own head, wondering how i can get paid in ideas.

i’ll watch classic movies but it’s from behind blurry a.d.d. eyes. i’ve got painted tiles going, mosaics, a comic book script, an essay more than a year in the writing, 3 new albums of music and vocals, random cathartic poetry, homemade art videos, collage work in a steady stream, a monthly zine 13 years running, i host a monthly drum group, co-host a monthly kirtan group. i envision a better world, write about it in detail and get made fun of for it. i’m pie-in-the-sky but dead serious about it.

by doing this stuff, by filing this stuff away, i’ve attached some sort of meaning to my life. yesterday i was struck by the thought that i could stop saving my writing in my folders, i could cease publishing my decade-old zine.. like it didn’t matter. and it doesn’t. but that realization made me cold and scared. it was like, if i did that, all my importance deflated; it all hung on a threadbare decision to move forward with this blind belief in myself.

all my work, all my 25 years of words, establishing all my identity and meaning. i pictured myself at death, cocooned on some floor with stacks of papers and old cd’s of my efforts piled around me, as if a part of my corporeal form.

each line had gotten me to me better.

i’m ready for the archival interest, the scholarly awe at the life and breadth of one human’s time on earth; a man with visions of sustenance and harmony. but it’ll probably all be tossed and dead-linked a few years after i’ve petered out.