March 8th, 2013



Some days it's easy, up with the sun, shower and go. Soy latte, table by the window, headphones in--

Bleed it out dig it deeper just to throw it away--

--Linkin Park blotting out the buzz of the coffee shop, focus view on the Word doc, 5 pages of re-typing, 5 pages of edits, bam! it's done. Some days it's harder, I needed the sleep, I needed to correct someone on the internet, the first line of Linkin Park a phantom sound in my ears while Word Bubbles sucks me into the quicksand of my bed.

Four o'clock.

Really? It takes you until four o'clock to leave the house? What the hell kind of lazy overprivileged white lady shit is this?

Surf the internet another hour, no really, I'm working. I'm 'reading for writing,' that's what my timekeeper app says. Call a friend, sort it out, headset in, it's time.

Bleed it out dig it deeper just to throw it away--

The playlist ticks off the pages. Goldfrapp. Katy Perry. Some days I make it all the way down to The Decemberists, on a really good day, Philip Glass. But it's always the second song that drives the need to start, is driven by the need to start (the first song is the get-your-pages-sorted, prop-them-on-a-book, did-you-wash-your-hands time, three minutes and thirty-one seconds of countdown, T-minus creativity).

Bleed it out dig it deeper just to throw it away--

The coffee shop closes early. Or there's a local couple with guitars and too much amp. Or my mother comes home, the sound of the automatic garage door like a starting pistol, sending me to my room in a mad rush, minus earbuds, minus power cord, on edge until the back door opens and I can call out, "Welcome home I love you I can't talk I'm writing," slam my own door like the sullen teen I was, I am still.

I do not know what I would do with children. Abuse them, probably. Not with the wire hanger or the cigarette, but with the coldness and silence and preoccupation, that's a lovely crayon drawing now shut up, dear God, shut up, I'm writing!

Bleed it out dig it deeper just to throw it away--

This is the glass box of selfishness, of being useless to the world on the (monumentally arrogant!) excuse that I will make something that matters, I will write better, I will write something worth solitude and exclusion.

I will.

Yeah here we go for the hundredth time, hand grenade pins in every line.

I will.