::Tune In::
The words are coming slowly tonight. My feet are folded underneath me and one foot is falling asleep because it is bearing the weight of my body on the ankle. Tonight I've been searching for that song to inspire me to greatness. It's how I work best. At present time I'm listening to Brad Mehldau cover Radiohead's Paranoid Android. Or, is it? I'm not certain because I'm parsing through about 200 random, mislabeled MP3s I once downloaded using Kazaa before the record company lawsuits started making the 7 o'clock news. This track's mp3 tags are distinctly void of information, but I'm certain I recognize the melody.
A quick click and word search through my iTunes library confirms my suspicions and I select the original Radiohead track and rock back and forth as I hash out these very words. It's a funny position. My feet are on the floor now, crossed at the ankles, left over right. My right foot is making this odd grabbing motion at my left foot's pinky with its big toe and second toe. You know, the one next to the big toe. Does that one have a name at all? On my hand, the digit I'm referring to is probably called the index finger or the pointer finger. But, here I am, just rocking back and forth in my strange effort to propel words from my brain, my body, my soul. Gawd I love this song. It makes me wish I still had long hair as I thrash my head back and forth.
My rhythm is momentarily disrupted as the song fades out and fades into Garbage's I think I'm Paranoid. This is what happens on iTunes when one song follows another on a given playlist. Oh, wonderful invention! Oh, praise be to Steve Jobs and all of Apple Company! The reason this tune erupts from my speakers is because I searched for the word "paranoid" to quickly get what I needed, and this song is simply another in my library which contains that word. Switching gears, I begin to bounce and sway to the new beat in my chair. Thankfully I don't have any other such songs beginning with the word "paranoid" because my right foot is beginning to feel tingly as it loses feeling, despite the monster grip my toes are giving to that baby toe.
Uncross legs. Sit down. Stand up. Sit down again. Another Radiohead tune comes to mind. I click the search field and type s-t-a-n-d. Lots more songs slide into the queue on my playlist. Crossing my legs again, I concentrate decisively on this task at hand. After all, I should think of something creative to write. Something witty. I think about avoiding my short story. Not deliberately. But breathing room is a necessary thing for a piece which kind of sapped me of my flow. What will happen in November? I'm determined to join in on National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). What then? As Sheryl Crow so cleverly puts it, it's Hard to Make a Stand. Stand up. Sit down. Cross legs, criss-cross-applesauce as I say to the little ones I teach in Sunday School. What am I writing about again?
This is my method of procrastination. Or merely a preference for something to be moving in the air, squelching the silence from the room and molding my spirits into better moods. A more creative mood. Wouldn't it be wonderful if you could simply order such a bless-ed commodity as that?
"Welcome to Del Taco. May I take your order?"
"Yeah, I'd like a number five, with a root beer, and a Muse on the side."
I nod and smile to myself--I made a funny! Is anyone else buying it? Glancing furtively around the room, desperate for approval, my backend sore from sitting for hours in this chair, pushing away time when I realize my sole audience is a drowsy tabby cat draped atop the unplugged television.
Uncross legs. Tuck left foot under my caboose and prop right foot on the foot rest (that wooden slat crossing from one leg of the chair to the other). Music is the most pivotal thing in my life. I think sometimes it hinders my progress because my attention is distracted. iTunes is particularly distracting as I can grab an entire album or snag a single in a matter of seconds. Truth be told, cards on the table, hiding nothing, I will tell you this: writing is a new and unusual thing for me. Writing like this, writing for work, as a means to an end, it is confusing and disorienting. It is no longer a leisurely activity which flitters and flickers in the wind. It is my duty. My mantra: I write. It is my occupation, published or not. Degree or no. Frankly, the responsibility makes me want to pee my pants! Inject what you want into that: terror, excitement, IBS issues; it's a daunting task, to write. I wouldn't mind being one of those who is admired by half-a-dozen people I've never met.
But, I'm writing for me.
A quick click and word search through my iTunes library confirms my suspicions and I select the original Radiohead track and rock back and forth as I hash out these very words. It's a funny position. My feet are on the floor now, crossed at the ankles, left over right. My right foot is making this odd grabbing motion at my left foot's pinky with its big toe and second toe. You know, the one next to the big toe. Does that one have a name at all? On my hand, the digit I'm referring to is probably called the index finger or the pointer finger. But, here I am, just rocking back and forth in my strange effort to propel words from my brain, my body, my soul. Gawd I love this song. It makes me wish I still had long hair as I thrash my head back and forth.
My rhythm is momentarily disrupted as the song fades out and fades into Garbage's I think I'm Paranoid. This is what happens on iTunes when one song follows another on a given playlist. Oh, wonderful invention! Oh, praise be to Steve Jobs and all of Apple Company! The reason this tune erupts from my speakers is because I searched for the word "paranoid" to quickly get what I needed, and this song is simply another in my library which contains that word. Switching gears, I begin to bounce and sway to the new beat in my chair. Thankfully I don't have any other such songs beginning with the word "paranoid" because my right foot is beginning to feel tingly as it loses feeling, despite the monster grip my toes are giving to that baby toe.
Uncross legs. Sit down. Stand up. Sit down again. Another Radiohead tune comes to mind. I click the search field and type s-t-a-n-d. Lots more songs slide into the queue on my playlist. Crossing my legs again, I concentrate decisively on this task at hand. After all, I should think of something creative to write. Something witty. I think about avoiding my short story. Not deliberately. But breathing room is a necessary thing for a piece which kind of sapped me of my flow. What will happen in November? I'm determined to join in on National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). What then? As Sheryl Crow so cleverly puts it, it's Hard to Make a Stand. Stand up. Sit down. Cross legs, criss-cross-applesauce as I say to the little ones I teach in Sunday School. What am I writing about again?
This is my method of procrastination. Or merely a preference for something to be moving in the air, squelching the silence from the room and molding my spirits into better moods. A more creative mood. Wouldn't it be wonderful if you could simply order such a bless-ed commodity as that?
"Welcome to Del Taco. May I take your order?"
"Yeah, I'd like a number five, with a root beer, and a Muse on the side."
I nod and smile to myself--I made a funny! Is anyone else buying it? Glancing furtively around the room, desperate for approval, my backend sore from sitting for hours in this chair, pushing away time when I realize my sole audience is a drowsy tabby cat draped atop the unplugged television.
Uncross legs. Tuck left foot under my caboose and prop right foot on the foot rest (that wooden slat crossing from one leg of the chair to the other). Music is the most pivotal thing in my life. I think sometimes it hinders my progress because my attention is distracted. iTunes is particularly distracting as I can grab an entire album or snag a single in a matter of seconds. Truth be told, cards on the table, hiding nothing, I will tell you this: writing is a new and unusual thing for me. Writing like this, writing for work, as a means to an end, it is confusing and disorienting. It is no longer a leisurely activity which flitters and flickers in the wind. It is my duty. My mantra: I write. It is my occupation, published or not. Degree or no. Frankly, the responsibility makes me want to pee my pants! Inject what you want into that: terror, excitement, IBS issues; it's a daunting task, to write. I wouldn't mind being one of those who is admired by half-a-dozen people I've never met.
But, I'm writing for me.
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