|Dog Massage: I Have Arrived
||[Dec. 19th, 2010|03:15 pm]
More than any other outlet of expression it seems like writing provides the most immediate access to the vein of inspiration that runs deep under the surface. When I don't write my ability to express myself in the form of art decreases dramatically. Dramatically being a relative term here, as I'm referencing something super unimportant to anyone except myself. But the inability to produce art results in self-loathing, which results in depression, which makes the notion of producing anything nonexistent. My entire life has been a landscape of downward spirals.
I've met a person who puts the "significant" in significant other, and she has exhibited more patience in dealing with me than any other significant other in my life, and in doing so has opened my eyes wider. I've been seeing more, and my mind's been on secret mystery rise for months now, ever since I gained strange abilities to manipulate my brain & consciousness, etc. Very weird things that make me feel like a crazy person, but things I can't possibly say aren't real. It's allowed me to concentrate on what I want & need to happen and work toward that goal as directly as just walking down a road.
This makes sense, at least to me. I feel more like "me" than at any other point in my life, and that can only be good. My spiritual faith died a few years ago, which I don't think I've written down for posterity yet, so I guess this is the record of it. Since then I have viewed life completely different and far more capable of getting what I pursue. Fear is at an all time low, hesitation is gone (except on bad days. But, fuck, what can you do?), self-confidence came into existence, pride manifested itself. Holy fuck, things can really turn around in a relatively short amount of time. I'd totally feel like an asshole if I'd have killed myself all those times I thought about killing myself.
For the last twelve years now, the idea of being a musician has seemed very exciting to me. Music has always entered my head without me provoking its arrival. Maybe I've always had some sort of ability to pick up on music and access that stream of information. I wrote songs & everything, it seemed like the only logical thing to do with the music. But I didn't take it seriously, I continued drawing comic, because I had fun doing it and I was good at it. The Practical Patty in me told me to stick with comics & develop it into a career. Because even then I realized, what else do I have? Smart kid, in some ways. So the comics kept coming, and in my free moments I would begrudgingly put my music down on paper and distractedly try to find some goddamn words to rhyme with each other.
But comics seem like work to me now, I feel like the last comic I did sort of freed me of the need to express myself in comics anymore. The only direction I could see things leading toward was drawing comics about dudes who become musicians. But the more the antidepressants I've been on kicked in, the more I felt like the idea of making music made sense. Because even comics took work for me; with music I've never even had to try. & lord knows I'm a lazy man, so absolutely nothing else makes more sense.
In the twelve years I've owned a guitar, I haven't learned much. Now its beginning to come to me. I've learned how to digitally produce out of necessity, and my crude entry-level production skills are improving with every song I make. So I'm not worried. Worry hasn't gotten me very far, and I've caught a travelling bug.
December 19th, 2010.