I recall once hearing a drummer say that two weeks without practicing made him rusty. I tried to bless myself with a little typewriter typing, but it became evident that I lacked the cohesive composure to type tightly after two days without public writing. Plus, they were smoking and playing dominos on the train tonight.
It’s been said to marry – because if you marry a good woman you will be happy, and if you chose poorly, you will become a philosopher. My oh my. How I would gather all this nonsense information to dissect like a live frog in front of everyone every week. I think the worst thing about me is that I expect people to treat me differently than I treat them, and then I blame them for however they treat me. I don’t always blame them, but I disregard them, for sure. I’d die if my ex wrote about me.
Part I:
I take my writing too seriously and it makes me super butt hurt when I read everyone I find IRL. Maybe I don’t give them enough credit, or time to digest their vomited words. But it is a let down. However, I’m happy in my corner – literally writing this in a gloried closet I’ve turned into my “office” alike Ocean Voung whom I have mutual hate with. But ya know, Stephen, and Ray, and Cormac, Penisbrain, and Whitebeard all wrote by themselves. But I’m unsure if they got a whole lot better – they just wrote more. I’d hope to get better. And I guess I have the next years.
“Practice” makes perfect. But so does other stuff, like people.
Writing is just about knowing where to make the cut. And then, how to cut. I hope that doesn’t insinuate that every word is an attack, but instead a dexterous revival of someone’s health.
And it’s about time I take some risks with my writing. I think the main issue I have with all the writing I read, is it is so damn similar. The stories might be a little different, but it sure feels derivative. And I ain’t found my perfect voice neither (late onset regret of living in the south, tis not a classy voice). But I sure hope we all don’t become droning vocalists of the written word, saying all the same things in different ways with the same words. Let’s make sure to read some humans.
And that is part one of my update. I have been so fixated on how I think the world is supposed to look, look, act, be, act, and appear, or sound, and all that psychological shit. I know I’ve said it’s ok to be human, but like I really see what a Clockwork Orange is. It is a person who appears to be a human, but is a wind up toy by God or the Government. I was one. Chillax doesn’t sum it all up, but I’m breaking my own constitution.
Starting with reading David Foster Wallace’s novel The Broom of the System. I’ve been wanting to read it for three years now, but I’ve been punishing myself by reading “the classics” like that is how it’s supposed to go. I read maybe five books last year. Because none of them (besides the memoirs! (Memoirs for chrissakes)) I wanted to read. I was reading them to be a spiritual intellectual. So I’m so fucking happy to be reading something I want. God isn’t that what the fuck it’s supposed to be about? Being an artist etc. Like why the fuck would you hate yourself to make yourself to watch a movie. Let’s see what else I allow myself to do.
Part II:
If I have an update on my love philosophy (life) it is a few things: Well, the story is out. The blonde wins!!! Everybody. I see why there can be resentment towards those yellow haired Goldie locks that steal our men. I’ll save you a couple thousand pages, but “I wasn’t strong enough” to not love her. As if that’s what the world deserves as a moral. No, it wasn’t mr. five year old moping.
The real moral, is, at this time the best I can say, is, we both knew we were wrong for each other, but she was strong enough to say it for both of us. And it redeems a lot. I’ve been deep down in some pit of hell, propagated by the media and Taylor Swift that every relationship ends with trying to get back at the other person with a diss album or revenge porn or whatever, but hey, I loved that girl. And she ended up being a good person. Who didn’t just break my heart because she could. You’re up to bat.
(write and release)
Ben Bonkoske 