I saw this online a couple of days ago and stole it because it's great. Until we all think like this, we still have a lot of work to do:
Hmmm... maybe I could work with some artists and see if we can come up with some shirts that rock on this concept... something that we can do some good with. It's always worth a shot.
This full blown minimalist mindset I've gotten myself into is wonderful. There's a peculiar chain of events attached to such a thing which is probably a huge lie but one that's working for me on some level of my psyche I won't pretend to understand...
The more things I get out of the house, out of my life and out of sight, the more room there appears to be for me to get along with my work.
Maybe a human being is nothing but a jar to be filled with a certain amount of sand?
I'd like to think that was true but real world examples such as Mr. Trump having more money than Greece vs the guy I once saw die in the street with nothing but a pair of old pants and a brown shirt that all the buttons had fallen off, say otherwise. I guess the truth of the matter is that we all make things up to get us through the night. We will believe anything we tell ourselves. That's the absolute truth of the matter - and when I describe myself as a Dirty Realism writer, that's what I'm really getting at... looking for the truth by throwing words together and hoping one day I'll turn over the stone I was looking for.
(Shoot... I've forgotten what I was going to write about now...)
Oh yeah, the less I have around, the more I seem to be able to achieve. For instance, now I have given away every single book I owned on music writing (aside from No One Here Gets Out Alive) I feel free enough to press on with another music book in the shape of Howl... for some reason, I would sit and look at my shelves and think "I'll never write a book as good as Ziggyology" and some trap door in there would open up and make it so.
Thus, by killing the demons in plain sight, freedom has decided to reveal itself.
I'm not unique in this. It's nothing but my own peculiar prison I made for myself, but don't kid yourself that you don't have one of your own.
Maybe it's also why writers, musicians, film-makers et al, produce their best work when they're young... or rather, when they have nothing. You have to fill the void-jar with something and at that point in your life, the best way to do it is by yourself rather than with somebody else's stuff.
Then again, I could just be full of shit but it seems to be working out for me so I'm taking it as a win and will go to bed convinced there is some kind of valuable wisdom in this.
While I remember - because it's important - one of my favourite writers who comes in the shape of a man called Poe Ballantine, recently posted up a short film called Poe In Hot Springs. Watch it - it's linked up there.
It's very cool and is just the kind of thing writers should be doing with their time to enhance their writing legacy instead of begging for cash like cheap dime-store hoods over at patreon.com.
I don't know if they still have dime-stores over in the U.S. but it's as good a phrase as I can think of right now.
Finally, there's a new album out from Steve Wilson this week. It's called To The Bone and it's an album I needed to hear to reinstate my faith that there were people still out there capable of making that very special thing called an 'album' without running out of ideas towards the end - or even worse, towards the middle.
Whilst mostly being a challenging listen (in all the right ways) as the man behind Porcupine Tree, Wilson is also more than capable of reducing a man to tears in the simplest of ways. Take a look at this:
I think my work here is done for the day. It might be one in the morning but that's no reason not to sit on this suitable chair for an hour or so and kick up some dust with a new toy:
