one of us speaks only truths

What's the point if there are no fruits of our labor? Even now, I'm writing a blog post. This doesn't matter. I claim it's revolutionary to make art without expecting others to see it, and electronics dilute that. They turn steal your creativity and motivation to turn into something mechanical, but you can't do anything to stop it because every aspect of your existence relies on them.

I'm listening to music from my hard drive. Is that revolutionary? I have CDs, but I spend more time collecting them, or building shelves to store them, than playing them. Is the act of survival revolutionary? It feels like it. I don't want to be the head of a movement, but it looks like I don't have any other choice when it comes to living.

I'M ALIVE!

If physical media is what proves it, then that's what I have to make. I bought a poetry book the other week, and it's really fucking bad, but I took the time to read it and find out and that's important. I've started taking bass lessons. My teacher says he didn't learn how to read music for the first 10 years of his career. He went note-by-note by ear, and that's the real "rock n' roll" way to play.

But here I am, posting my thoughts to the internet, managing to go against my two main lessons at once: create for yourself, and create with your hands. Maybe it's because I find the internet more anonymous than my head---I get to forget about it, and no one else will see it. Maybe it's because I like the word maybe because it lets me speak my mind while maintaining plausible deniability.

 

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INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT

Beige tiles, tan walls, brown towels. What you picture of an all-American bathroom 20 years ago. A girl looks at herself in the mirror.

 

REFLECTION

Get off your ass. Make something.

GIRL

I don't know how.

 

REFLECTION

You're learning an instrument---write lyrics.

GIRL

I don't have anything interesting to say.

REFLECTION

Of course you do. Talk about suburban sprawl, your dreams to move

to a small town where everyone knows your name and you don't have

to worry about changing routines, decorating your room, or the pit in

your stomachchest that you've felt all evening. Anything! As soon as

you write one thought, the rest will come spewing out, and even if they

don't that means you have an extra opportunity to think it over. This isn't

for other people, or "getting better"---this is for the days you're in your 

room and your hands start to itch.

GIRL

I don't have any days like that anymore. Outside of work, school, guitar,

and friends, I'm exhausted. Most of the time I can't manage more than

passing out in front of basketball or social media. How am I supposed to

do more on top of that? I've lived life one sleep to the next since middle

school.

REFLECTION

This isn't a demand---all I ask is that you keep me in mind the next time

you start to shake out of your skin and scroll through your phone until

you can hang on by the skin of your teeth and ignore the root of the prob-

lem. Creating isn't an obligation, but joy is. This might help.

 

The girl shakes her head. The reflection does the same. She sighs, and turns toward the door---there's only an hour left of what she naively calls relaxation before she has to go to bed. She doesn't see the reflection watching her retreating back.

---

Maybe I'll take my own advice (again with the plausible deniability). You should too, or not, I'm not your anything. Get back to me in two weeks when I have my next full day off and see if I've turned this all around.

Listen-Along: Eau d'Bedroom Dancing by Le Tigre