Hey, guys. Tony here. While I haven’t written a blog in a hot minute it occurred to me recently that I now have this medium to disseminate my ill-crafted thoughts to a lot more people thanks to the recent successes of the Share Your Buzz podcast. But alas, this article has nothing to do with the podcast; rather an introspective glimpse into the tangled topography of how my brain works. The other day I was hanging out with a friend at an establishment where one might procure an adult beverage, (Ahem), and the following events unraveled.
I get introduced to a local poet and writer, we’ll call him - Lester. Now, Lester is one of these real modern poetry cats. Opinionated. Indignant. A bit condescending and self aggrandizing. I liked the guy. Hey, what the hell. The joy of hanging out with we who fancy ourselves men and women of the word is the oft academic disagreements. I get off on that. In depth metaphysical discourse on philosophical injustice! Eh, It’s just the best we can do. Carry on the perpetual study of culture, counterculture, and all the dross in between. Lester was alright. Except that he called Kerouac a hack which sent a pulse of ephemeral fisticuffs coursing through my veins.
Now, I’m going to omit the details of what happened next for respect of those involved. We’ll just say that Lester did something to betray his self-absorbed supercilious nature. It didn’t anger me in the least, but rather made me laugh. This I surely couldn’t show in the moment lest I risk being the dick for pointing it out. My friend was there when it happened. The following day I made a joke to said friend about such comical vainglory to which the reply I received was most unexpected. “He’s just intense, not vain. Maybe to a stranger it would look that way, but I know him.” #oops
After the obligatory railcar thought of, “How dare you don’t have the same exact sense of humor as me”, passed by the by - the next thought in line was a revelation. Maybe I’m not intense enough?!
I don’t feel passionate about anything enough for it to be a muse. The teenage angst that turned to impetuous action in my twenties that turned to reflective thought in my thirties has become daunted dissatisfaction. Not even a despise, just - nothing.
Sure, I like things. Things are cool. There are great authors I look up to. Wonderful music being made all around me. I live in the epicenter of neon paradise. But nothing does it for me. It all seems prosaic and lazy. The conflagrations of my youth have been extinguished by the contentment of age. Fighting the man? Who fights the man anymore? It’s been the same tired bullshit remonstrating with word since Isaac Newton was forced to recant science for blasphemy. Hip counterculture movements? Well, the badass poets and authors of the 1950’s and 60’s ruined that by doing it so well the first time. We can never aspire to replicate the Hemingways, Thompsons, and Bukowskis. What, then? Love? Ahhh, sweet disambiguous romance. There’s only been one of late that’s done it and her capricious nature has sparked more than a few words in my notebook. But there is nothing more disenchanting than a tentative muse.
So, the question remains. How to regain my intensity and passion? How to find that muse?
By the way, creative lubricant doesn’t work. Actually, I feel far less creative in drink these days. So, “Go out and find new things that you enjoy!” Lack of experiences aren’t the issue. I do cool shit. Like, all the time. “Revisit your older works and try to rekindle that flame of yore!” I look at my passed work and think, “Remember when you used to be talented?!” This next one cracks me up, “Go out and make new friends!” Wait, what? So, what do I do with my now friends? “Hey, brohame. Sorry, but I’ve gotta ditch some baggage. Yeah, turns out all my lame-o friends are killin’ my mojo, bro-jo.” And if you’re one of my friends giving me that advice, guess what? That means you, too!
And so it comes to pass we still creep in this petty pace from day to day. But, wait! I haven’t written an article in over a year. Perhaps my muse is that I have no muse. Ye gods! What if being dead inside reignites my passion for life and the word? What a twist of fate. Perhaps my epitaph has not been written upon the pages of my youth!
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Looks like I owe Lester a thank you for the inspiration. And who knows, maybe he’ll be one of my new friends. Oh, and listen to the Share Your Buzz podcast which I assure you is superlatively more entertaining than this blog. I leave you with this quote about writing from Jack Kerouac -
“I spent my entire youth writing slowly with revisions and endless rehashing speculation and deleting and got so I was writing one sentence a day and the sentence had no FEELING. Goddamn it, FEELING is what I like in art, not CRAFTINESS and the hiding of feelings.”