I sit staring at a hotel curtain. The pattern reminds me of birch trees. Beyond are some Loblolly pines and Carolina starlight.
The room has that new plaster smell that reminds me of the apartment I stayed at while working at a fiberglass plant. My highschool buddies dad was some bigwig there and it was my buddies apartment. I was gonna pay rent but got pissed and decided to try living off of cheap tobacco and tins in my hatchback. It’s just a few towns over.
Showed up on a girls porch to talk shit and get drunk. We kissed at some point and went to the stupid ocean and came back and loved but sort of off and on.
The place had an Irish name and was still under construction. Sort of like everything is, and will be forever, since forever.
The stars are constantly reconfiguring themselves, exploding, and assembling into perpetuity. Like shitty cosmic suburbs. That’s right God I just compared your handiwork to Detroit.
There was a birch tree covered in ice – dripping ice outside my elementary school window in Moscow. That was more than a few towns over.
The chronology isn’t very linear but I’ve never been good at keeping rhythm. But sometimes I imagine I make pretty sounds and that’s enough for me.
Once my dad punched an icicle under a kiosk and got a bloody knuckle.
I was at a paramilitary summer camp and felt my head explode as it hit the hook on the door. The short kid I was boxing was pissed. We both ended up sharing aspirins and laughing at the faces we made as the water stung our bloodied lips.
The ceremonial cannon shots exploded. Exploded like memorial supernovas. Bursting in realization that these grounds, this grass, had drunk a crimson dinner.
Gotta lose a few when everything’s under construction. Ever see a worksite without sawdust? Forget about it.
What I can’t forget about is the madness of that shitty feeling that comes from pairing Lagers with waffles. How strange for it to mix with symphonies and the crisp cold magic of space dotted with shreiking angels of flame.
Angels that build while molasses drips.
Like the tears from her eyes after I’d given her a good fucking and she was afraid that I’d leave.
No it wasn’t the poems, the wit, or the dinners. Just a good shag. That’s what made her pine. I don’t grudge her for it. I’m a lousy lay most times. But then so was she. So I guess we’ll call it even.
Cause we’re both under construction. We just built in different directions. Maybe some day the buildin wind will blow bits of our ashes into the same lighthouse. And our ghosts can teach the birches to bear the ice just as beautifully as they always have.
Cause freezing over is the same as thawing out.
It’s just under construction.
I’ve been up since three. There’s everything right here. In waves that undulate like the corporately clean curtain.
Under construction since three in the AM.
Till sleeping adds some temporary walls so I can’t see inside the house again.
Had a bit of a nap followed by some tea and realized that March is upon us. So, I was mulling my stories, the ones that are just sort of hanging there, swaying in the breeze like heralds of some half finished country.
And some thoughts arose….
Thought One
Don’t burden your stories with duties (read neurosis). Yes, it is good to have the goal of realism in mind but if you’re putting off the completion of some bit of wild fiction to add that dash of historical accuracy – that’s story abuse. It is a very wicked thing.
You the author have responsibilities. Your stories do not. Your stories are wild living things that will breathe in their own way. Sure you can train them up a bit but don’t force them to do windsprints just because you were almost a track star.
Thought Two
Thought two has nothing to do with stories. I enjoy camping, the outdoors, and I drive quite a bit due to the sprawling nature of the Carolinas. This fact coupled with a somewhat overzealous favor for vigilance leads me to ponder – how does one avoid becoming a casualty?
Which in turn leads me down a trail to – in the wake of realizing what sort of a miracle it is that your ancestors didn’t die from eating the wrong mushroom…thus eventually leading to you…in a long uncanny tangle of holy shit that was close..
How does one bear the responsibility of having fun?
O my. I fear that I am becoming the master of hackneyed points. So be it.
The little hobbyist recording kit I’d bought about a year ago still has a short in it. I’m sure the company would have honored the warranty if I’d sent it in, but I’m terribly bothered by even the mildest of bureaucratic tasks and haven’t fetched the information necessary to do so.
Affordable and works well when you treat it right.
That’s why I made the video. Well, sort of. It’s part of the reason. I also just enjoy sharing my thought processes and certain “authentic” spur of the moment little events.
I really fancied the silly little vocal melody and lyrics that I’d come up with and didn’t want to forget the cadence, pitch, and rhythm. So I thought I’d record it. Given how my phone is currently my mic and camera that’s what I used.
My dog being the nosy pest that he is decided to burst in, which added to that sort of spontaneity vibe and I thought, ‘Hmm… why not just post this.’ Maybe it’ll give someone a few moments of amusement.
Most of all though, it allows me to do my favorite thing which is pontificate about creativity and process.
I think most musicians and songwriters are too busy with the act of creating and recording to bother to share their thoughts on the matter too often. How fortunate that I’m primarily a writer and philosophy nerd. This means that I analyze the ever-loving hell out of absolutely everything for what I hope is your enjoyment and edification.
I think the fantastic thing about things like the story of Jack and Jill is that they are these little archetypes. Not so much of a particular concept like ‘the maiden’ or the ‘wise man’ but more about the vibe of a thing. They transmit a certain plasticity which makes them wonderfully malleable items for the formation of lyric and poem.
All I had in my head was the name Jill for whatever reason and then obviously Jack and the blasted hill entered in by association. Generally, such nursery rhyme things evoke memories of blissful childhood, best represented by ‘the moment of sunshine,’ and so I had myself a theme and little lyrical bits I could assemble into a coherency.
Obviously, the familiarity of the story also means that it’s likely primed for a warm reception in the mind of the audience and artist alike.
Yes, there may be some contrarian hipster sorts who’d balk at something so mainstream. However, perhaps they can fall under that ‘ironic’ spell of something so bad (by virtue of hacky premise) that it’s good.
Although, now that I think about it…maybe Jill wasn’t on my mind at all. I think that I’d wanted to go to my favorite meadow in the local wood like the dirty hippy I am. Out there is where I like to soak in the sun, as I read things like Emerson, and mock myself for the fact that I actually unironically own a hacky sack. In these moments where I’m alone in solitude, I realize, that although it is a happy solitude, I am waiting for something, longing for something.
There’s a lot to long for and wait for in a universe of infinite possibilities. But one of those things which is most tangible as a representation of them all is the lover. So perhaps it was the archetype of the maiden that spurred me on all along.
I felt especially happy that the name Jill entered into my head as a result of that ‘x variable’ that was necessary to get across this crunchy vibe. Its puerile simplicity is a wonderful foil, or background, to a concept that could be weighed down by a lot of cosmic portents which would render it unfit for my current purposes. I wish to convey happy expectation not...SEHNSUCHT
So, I hope that you’ve found this to be as fun to read and watch as I had in writing and recording it.
Thanks for stopping by and have a great time wherever time finds you.
The Fractal Journal 