It's been a while since I've been able to listen to Blair Combest because I'm a silly girl. I couldn't stand the sound of his voice in almost the same way I still can't stand to hear the sound of the disease's voice. That's such an insult to his talent and his wise voice.
Shit.
He wins.
I'd love to sit down with someone and let them read my notebook. I need some validation and an unbiased opinion on what I'm doing. If that someone enjoys what I've written, that someone has every right to kick me in the ass to write some more once or twice a week.
My only complaint about my muse is that she/he/it has no real sense of time. Whenever the muse strikes, I gotta obey.
I need to stop lying awake at night letting my mind go all over the place because that's what usually leads to me hopping out of the bed right as I'm falling asleep and writing for 10 minutes to maybe 30 minutes.
How is it that I can go from writing about a girl following Dylan on tour to the female Elvis to the Sirens who run North Mississippi to 4 bullriders riding a train so that they can bury their best friend/brother? They all have one connection, my love for music.
I wish I didn't have such a hard time making friends when I actually get out of my house, which is rare. Mostly, I go to the library or the park these days, only in warm weather though.
I wish my poetry didn't suck so bad.
I wish I had a best friend that could talk back to me, my dog is my best friend.
2 comments:
Can someone take care of your dog for a week while you come visit St. Louis? --Your Dad's middle sister.
Maybe when this allergy/cold thing that I have isn't wreaking havoc on my body. That sounds really good, Aunt Clare! I haven't seen you and Uncle Joe in a million years, or maybe 6 years is more accurate. ;)
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