A night of improvisation, word barf, revolution, sensuality, arrogance and desperation
It’s 2:45 a.m. on an early Monday morning and I am so pumped to be writing. My last comment was marinated in the succulent juices of sarcasm. Sarcasm is a man’s keg of glory.
Then again, why should I complain? Sometimes the brain in concert with creativity conspires to keep me up just a bit longer so I can jot a sentence fragment down. I have been waiting for this moment all day in the midst of doing other menial tasks and enjoying small pleasures.
What did I do earlier did you ask? Oh, I took a shower, which killed 15 or so minutes. I put on clothing and deodorant, not necessarily in that order. I made a sandwich for lunch — not a very good sandwich. I watched Donnie Brasco as my father and I goofed on the movie.
I read a few news websites, I chatted with a few people on Facebook, I played a video game, and I listened to music and Howard Stern. Today was a series of absolutely uneventful events with no evidence of an eventual evidential event. Now I hope all of you are even-tempered as I evade your… OK, I will stop the alliterations. However, I hope my dear reader will charitably grant my point.
The ticking sounds of the day all sounded the same. The day was pathetic as my mind drifted into playing Civilization as I listened to Howard Stern yell at Gary “Bababooey” Dell’abate and call him an ingrate.
What can I say? If my mind were an engine, my starter was faulty. I had plenty of gas, water, oil, new sparkplugs, and yet as I turn the key in the ignition — I suffered as I heard the mockery of silence.
I think this is the condemnation of a writer’s life. You just wait.
Meanwhile when you wait, the world passes you by. Everything you care about leaves you. Anything you should keep in constant care or cautious maintenance slowly rots away from neglect. It becomes a bizarre paralysis and the only care is to play finite rounds of computer Solitaire, mahjong or chess.
It’s 3:06 a.m. and my mind doesn’t feel any less absolution from the burden of a rebellious thought.
May I confess to you? I have been listening to a podcast called Left, Right and Center. It’s a political podcast in which a Republican, a Democrat, and a neutral moderator debate three news items. I can tell you after digesting the show, I honestly wish to regurgitate. If I could reach into cyberspace and wring a few overly-paid and self-important jerkoffs — I would. Mental note for myself: Do not listen to an argument at 3 a.m. in the morning. I feel like ripping my shirt off and throwing a tank at a helicopter.
I am waiting for the wit to come. I am waiting for a moment of keen insight to share with an audience. I am waiting for a clever tease to impregnate a young lady’s mind (I fully accept a few men will also be impregnated with my thought baby). I sit here and wait for it to happen. Come on you motherfucker, come on thought. Come out and play.
Instead I sit here, sip the last of my once warm tea, scratch my balls, and negotiate with myself to get to sleep. My eyes are straining, I am committing a mass-slaughter to the English language, and my left shoulder hurts (stress from being up late).
It’s 3:22 a.m. and I stare. I am evaluating my musical choices currently. Right now I have a heavy metal band — Carcass — on the computer speakers. I need that energy for another 15 minutes. Just long enough for me to upload this column which feels like GW bridge traffic. Finally, a Chris Christie jab.
Three minutes later, and I’m not sure if I should be proud of myself or call myself a loser. I’m honestly not soliciting a “Matt, you are so great.” It’s just one of those times in a creative person’s life where you go “What the fuck is the point?” I obviously turned left instead of right. Perhaps I have made too many unconventional left-handed turns in my life. All those turns were hard lessons and choices. Then again I always wanted to learn the hard way.
Anyways, I made my choice. I walked the high-wire without a net. You stumbled onto a night of improvisation, word barf, revolution, sensuality, arrogance and desperation. I get to be so many things in the span of 40-plus minutes and then reduce myself to an insignificant nobody when I finally crawl into bed. No wonder why so many writers, artists and musicians kill themselves.
Is it possible I threaten my mortality and sanity every time I play writer? I won’t know until I wake up tomorrow. I am putting on Chick Corea and going to bed.