It’s a long haul. I’ve taken this train many times, and each time is a new adventure. I guess that makes me just like Indiana Jones right!??
Making ideas tangible is most definitely a human endeavor, one that we relish in. Often, I will find myself lost in this employment, and this avenue of embellishment. It seems so exciting and enticing to become the “inventor”…like Micheal fuckin’ Angelo, and Leonardo da boss Vinci.
These guys were masters of material and the physical world. They shaped their surroundings to their liking, as a spider to its web. Fascinating the amount of precision and control they exercised, all while allowing the mind to wander in creativity. Wandering is the fun part, so I’ve learned. The rest is just work. These masters became this way through countless hours of practice and discipline I should think. They were obsessed, they had to be, to get this good.
Do you see it in your mind? Do you see it come out the end of the pencil? Do you see it in the light, or in the shadows at night? Do you see it in the faces and expressions of plight?
Ideas. Where do they come from? Everywhere, all the time, waiting to be noticed.
Lay it down, record it, let it out, let it shine, let it go!
After a while, after time spent channeling the flow…ideas are abundant and sketch books are full. What now, where to, all this energy trapped, in my mind, in the paper, in the lyrics splayed out. Your caught on the beach my friend, surrounded by the sand and the sun, and the glimmering water. All these ideas are floating around you, as you lay in the kitty pool, happy to be warm, and too frightened to wade out, cast away, and be taken by the storm. It comes anyway my friends, whether you swim towards it or away, the storms blow in, and takes us, shakes us, and splashes us about.
Eventually, if I’m lucky, I start to learn, that the storm is the teacher, and the beach is the deep end. If I swim toward the wind, I begin to take flight, cast off from this pool, to soar out into the fight. On higher ground, better vantage point…I have only to let go of the rock now, to conquer my demise.
I thought this article was going to be about making things!? WTF
If I were to sit here and write, just what you thought I might, would I not be the victim at the end of the play….a tragedy, a stepping stone, a fart in the fucking wind my friends. We don’t get to chose as we might think, but we surely get to fight! Step past the paper, the microphone, an the night…lean forward into the storm, soar up into the light. As the rain comes down, let it wash away the end of the last thought, the end of the last feeling, and make way for the effort, the engineering, and the shaping. Ideas are done. Let us forge, let us dance. Let us carve it out of light. I don’t know what the fuck I’m saying at this moment, but it’s right, it bang on!! Doesn’t matter what you think, doesn’t matter what you say. I’m out here to play mother fuckers, I’m out her to run, to leap, to chase the new. Yes, I do chase my own fuckin’ tail sometimes, as do you. So stop laughing at me, and let go. Straighten your back and stretch your wings. Let the paper to soil and the ideas to earth, to transform…metamorphic, recycled, transcendent, dispose.
There it is, the end…the beginning of prose