22.4.10

I can't stand it anymore more!

Oh, Lou Reed. What I love most about Lou Reed is that, whether he internalized his true feelings or not, he never really appeared to give a good God Damn about what anyone thought of him. How could one possibly think that he did? An often drugged out, New York gay who spoke-sang, but not really, fronting a so-called Avant Garde, noise band with classically trained and not-at-all trained musicians. Friend of Warhol. All around freaky weirdo. Fantastic!

I appreciate, what I believe to be, the man's aspirations to make his brand of sonic art without care for, ostensibly, anything. Perhaps he was an ego-maniacal jack-ass. That fact is moot. It is my perception of the quality of the man's principles that guides, and inspires, my reverie.

So, why am I talking about Lou Reed? Get comfy, because explaining, in detail, my thought process, can be somewhat involved. Obviously, it's involved.

My intention was to re-start my writings, for the one hundred and fifty second time, with a 'one a week' theme. The 'one a week' theme being that I should write, at the very least, once a week, surprising yes? Mind you, more is better. Once a week is the base.

Could I do this, should I? Maybe more opportunity, professional and personal, would spring forth from my creative expenditures. If only I could create with more frequency and without the constant intrusion of work. In either case, I decided to start writing at the exact moment that I did, this morning, out of sheer frustration with the incompetent, busy-bodies with whom I work. These interlopers have counterparts everywhere and are similar in substance to your co-workers that burgle your time in like manner.

Nevertheless, when I thought about writing, at that exact moment, a vision of Lou popped into my head, jeans, leather, and all, singing "I can't stand it anymore, more." Thus, in my extremely round about synaptic firings, we progress from the theme of being exhausted by office politics, to music, to writing, to explaining it all. Little doubt that I find a way to bring everything back to music, as it is my belief that life is music, and vice-versa.

In any case, this whole attempt of explaining my process is... well, cathartic, and didactic. It purges the negativity within, simply by removing the thoughts from mind, placing them in some medium. Further, explanation elaborates and memorializes my thought patterns, from which I can later glean life-improving facts and lessons, hopefully.

Furthermore, I am a disciple of a particular school of thought, followed by others, I am sure, that posits the creation of art begets the creation of art, i.e., the more you do, the more you will do. So, now that I think of it, "I can't stand it anymore more" applies to both my inability to suffer my co-worker's ineptitude and meddling as well as my failures to develop a routine for creating art. Both problems which I have temporarily solved merely by expunging these thoughts. Jerks =0, Me = 1.