rung out and folded
we fill our lives with a stark brand of cold and warm
press the will of men
will you then?

tamed by the noise
incensed by the silence
informed by the dormant heart that sets until you claim it

switch it on and blame it
for leading dim to dangerous
fluorescent and courageous

beauty won’t berate us
entertain trust
and then what?

religious
and then dust

I jotted this down while in Chicago, in a Field Notes memo book while sitting in a trendy coffee shop that serves their brew–not from some commercial machine monstrosity, but made to order by the cup–on a wooden tray with a mug and a decanter, while they played the Fleet Foxes entire Sun Giant record, because fuck other coffee shops.

Coming back to it now, I really like it, but I completely dismissed it initially as disingenuous scribbling because I wrote it in the context of the most painfully rote hipster/poet/artist stereotype I can imagine.

But then I do this every time I begin something creative. Even something as small and fleeting as this. I find some reason to discredit authenticity and value in my own work.

I’m too self conscious and I’m a people pleaser. A terrible combination. But now I write for a living. And now I realize that’s where my self criticism and evaluation belong, because I’m writing for them. But everything outside of that–it’s for me.

The more I let that sink into my marrow the more I’ve been enjoying re-kindling my affair with writing, and the more free I feel when I sit down with my guitar and a 4 track recorder.

Creating should be therapeutic, and at times astounding. So, here’s to less is this clever enough? or is this trying to be too clever? and more is this fun? Do I feel free?