I don’t know what to call this.

Well, okay. I got this email from a lady who reads my blog. She said some nice things, and then told me some other things, none of which is really anybody’s business. But I want to write about this thing that happened in the email, which is a thing that has happened to me in other places, too.

I always talk about how I hate words. I have said this too many times to be able to count. I want to be a writer, I want to be a musician, I want to start a cult… how could I possibly do any of these things without a better relationship with words? For me, it is the act of expressing… this is the part that makes me unhappy. Have you ever taken LSD? So, then, you know that place you get to in the trip, where you have understandings that go way out there, a lot farther than words could ever go, and you look around there and all you see is limitless beauty. When colors become so multi-faceted, nearly taking on their own semi-complex personalities, that it would be an injustice to try to give them a name.

I believe in the human mind. I think it’s a little sad that we are too slow in our respective evolutions to be able to find a way to do away with words altogether. But, then, on the other hand, words are all we have. Words are all I have, for now, until I figure out how to directly place my thoughts into other peoples’ brains.

Words are a cruelly crude substitute for thought. Like when the richest king in all of the land, he sends out this tragically inadequate little man, the poorest and least educated peasant in his kingdom, to deliver his messages to the people. These messages are supposed to convey REAL sentiment, they should move the people to ecstatic tears… but the man trying to convey the idea and the emotion, this man falls flat. This man is almost an insult. This man should know better than to even try. Yes. This example, from my perspective, is a prime reason that words deserve to be hated to some degree.

Even with music, it’s pretty ridiculous to use words. Not as bad as, say, writing a book or a political speech. But it’s still pretty fucking lame to put words in your music. I hate myself every time I do it, but I always feel like that’s all I can do. I don’t know, I’m also just being a retard right now. I mean, I’ve written a lot of songs with words in them, and I have probably done it mostly because, well, it’s a lot of fun. Sometimes. Other times, I’m compelled to express something, and hopelessly chop away at a song that will never mean anything to me, no matter how hard I try to make it mean something.

Words are like pissing in your own whiskey glass. A bitter and salty fuckery of a drink, an obscure and sad reminder of what that drink once was, what it could have been, what it could have meant to you and your future and the futures of those around you.

See, but here’s the problem: When your brain is making you crazy by chasing its own thoughts around and around, it can be really unhealthy to just sit around and let this happen. There needs to be some leakage somewhere. So. If you’re too lazy and unimaginative to paint or build something, you better sit the fuck down and write. Or talk. See, I talk to people a lot, too. And that helps. But I feel guilty about talking to people. MY brain doesn’t stop going just because we are starting to feel a little bored of hearing about it all. I’m aware that people have their own shit to deal with, and they probably don’t want to hear my shit. So. Writing is free therapy. Say whatever I want, whatever I need, because I don’t really have another choice.

Words are the lesser of two evils. The alternative, for me, is a series of nervous breakdowns. I mean, most likely. I mean, that’s how it was in the past, before I learned how to (sort of) fight back against my crazy.

Well, wait. This is a new thought that I’ve never had: What if I’m supposed to learn to just completely embrace words, and what if that’s the only way I’ll ever be able to “write” well, and what if that’s where all the real freedom comes from? What if I’m completely full of shit, and my so-called hatred for words is just a reflection of my fear of being a terrible writer? Fear of rejection, or whatever. What if all that this boils down to is a need for more confidence?

I want to write well. I want to get paid. I want to quit my shitty, corporate, indentured servitude. Fuck.

I suppose I can’t exactly hate words if I hope to make a decent living off of them……?

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About R. Spacely

Bastard.
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2 Responses to I don’t know what to call this.

  1. You’re like my friend who is a cheese maker and is in fact allergic to dairy. You’re a writer, allergic to words. So you pop an imaginary Benadryl every now and again to write awesome shit and get paid for it. And you’re cheese is good. (That metaphor works in theory, but sounds a lot dirtier than intended.)

  2. Anonymous says:

    Wow. First of all, I ain’t no lady.

    I am so flattered that I provoked something in you. Really. Someone who is as talented as you are. I think us wannabe, famous writers, I mean the ones who REALLY want it, all want to get out from under the skin of being accountable to anyone but themselves. I think I’ve been really putting myself out there, submitting some stuff to some specialty mags and journals and so far, noone has laughed in my face and said “You suck. Pack it in. You have no talent.”

    I have shared your blog with many talented people and I will continue to do so. With your permission I will post the link on my facebook page, both my personal one and the one I set-up for my blog (you can look for me on both–Gayle Saks and My Life in the Middle Ages. You are remarkable in your honesty and conflicts.

    Don’t stop!!!!

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