Scene 11
I'm in the dark again. Isn't it nice sometimes when life repeats itself. We are all lazy aren't we.
I read through this little intimate mag. It surely reminds me of something obsolete in my blood. Was is in elementary school or something, that I tried to start a newspaper (yes no more no less) with not even photocopy but oil painting, wax templates. It came out once or twice I think. Then the dream burst just like what I wrote in one other story, "Starry Moony Dreamy Night", at the end of which the whole publishing house burnt down. I made that ending to mock and whip myself. But that newspaper was somewhat a trace of my desire for creation, perfection. Or even fame. Later on I started to write song names and design albums. I was too naive and too lazy to have even lyrics for those titles. So what remains is the index and a bunch of ugly sleeves, with song names on the back. I did manage to have at least a cover for everything that came into my mind. But God knows how many songs lasted before they were strong enough to creep out of my mind onto papers. And as I still keep the numbering of albums and write something once in a while, or even recorded a whole demo for "Night Coming Home" last year, I start to lose the thrill I used to have even for creating a name like "Emotions of Hands".
Thus the desire goes higher and higher for creation, flat for perfection, and down to almost nothing for fame. I laugh at mainstream idiot singers. I get indulged in less well known works. I even stop buying CDs of singers I used to like, cause they sound like coins clashing. Or lack of coins.
But how I love to touch and read this little mag. "6, ah," I started to wonder whatelse went on beyond this and "5". And I wanted to write a song for that "not a poem". And I love how they cut and pasted by hands. I love that "QUIT". What's more wonderful than getting into someone's mind and getting lost there. This is music and this is my blood. And I thank them for this lovely transfusion.
I slept till 1PM and got up, cleared up my mind and my stomach, filled them with new things. The next thing I knew was I'm now sitting here in the dark again. Sceince is eating away my flesh. But it doens't touch my blood. And that feels sooooooo good.
I read through this little intimate mag. It surely reminds me of something obsolete in my blood. Was is in elementary school or something, that I tried to start a newspaper (yes no more no less) with not even photocopy but oil painting, wax templates. It came out once or twice I think. Then the dream burst just like what I wrote in one other story, "Starry Moony Dreamy Night", at the end of which the whole publishing house burnt down. I made that ending to mock and whip myself. But that newspaper was somewhat a trace of my desire for creation, perfection. Or even fame. Later on I started to write song names and design albums. I was too naive and too lazy to have even lyrics for those titles. So what remains is the index and a bunch of ugly sleeves, with song names on the back. I did manage to have at least a cover for everything that came into my mind. But God knows how many songs lasted before they were strong enough to creep out of my mind onto papers. And as I still keep the numbering of albums and write something once in a while, or even recorded a whole demo for "Night Coming Home" last year, I start to lose the thrill I used to have even for creating a name like "Emotions of Hands".
Thus the desire goes higher and higher for creation, flat for perfection, and down to almost nothing for fame. I laugh at mainstream idiot singers. I get indulged in less well known works. I even stop buying CDs of singers I used to like, cause they sound like coins clashing. Or lack of coins.
But how I love to touch and read this little mag. "6, ah," I started to wonder whatelse went on beyond this and "5". And I wanted to write a song for that "not a poem". And I love how they cut and pasted by hands. I love that "QUIT". What's more wonderful than getting into someone's mind and getting lost there. This is music and this is my blood. And I thank them for this lovely transfusion.
I slept till 1PM and got up, cleared up my mind and my stomach, filled them with new things. The next thing I knew was I'm now sitting here in the dark again. Sceince is eating away my flesh. But it doens't touch my blood. And that feels sooooooo good.
posted by David | 5:51 PM
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