I need something loud. I'm only good when I write with passion.
I awake to scattering, fantastic dreams, to the sound of the crickets, shuffle to the bath boneworn, ride to work under looming, low skies that would be beautiful.
Are you passionate? Are you living like you talked?
Got Neil's newest, Greendale, a wonderfully flawed epic, beautiful, simple, hokey enough to avoid that Andrew Lloyd Webber schlock (sorry Sarah). It choked my up. I think I'm in mourning for the lost time. In the summer I was so creative. I have such a passion for what I do (teaching, writing, riding, composing) that any one can consume me, and just so happens that teaching is doing that now. But I miss the windy, flashing nights when I would write until my fingers hurt and then lie in the darkness thinking Good enough, I did what I could tonight. And the open mic nights when I'd feel that buzzing, nervous energy right before I'd go on, playing a song I'd written the night before to people I'd never met.
Now, though, I see people opening up to things. I've got some blindfolded chimps with pencils in their teeth, but mostly my students are nice and really give me an effort. I lie in bed now, in the moment before I fall deeply asleep, thinking good enough. I think they like me grudgingly. I'm cool enough, but sort of goofy. I make them work and don't take crap, but I'm nice and will listen.
I want some peanuts. Fin.
I awake to scattering, fantastic dreams, to the sound of the crickets, shuffle to the bath boneworn, ride to work under looming, low skies that would be beautiful.
Are you passionate? Are you living like you talked?
Got Neil's newest, Greendale, a wonderfully flawed epic, beautiful, simple, hokey enough to avoid that Andrew Lloyd Webber schlock (sorry Sarah). It choked my up. I think I'm in mourning for the lost time. In the summer I was so creative. I have such a passion for what I do (teaching, writing, riding, composing) that any one can consume me, and just so happens that teaching is doing that now. But I miss the windy, flashing nights when I would write until my fingers hurt and then lie in the darkness thinking Good enough, I did what I could tonight. And the open mic nights when I'd feel that buzzing, nervous energy right before I'd go on, playing a song I'd written the night before to people I'd never met.
Now, though, I see people opening up to things. I've got some blindfolded chimps with pencils in their teeth, but mostly my students are nice and really give me an effort. I lie in bed now, in the moment before I fall deeply asleep, thinking good enough. I think they like me grudgingly. I'm cool enough, but sort of goofy. I make them work and don't take crap, but I'm nice and will listen.
I want some peanuts. Fin.
Comments