duckbutter

after so many

you know,
instances,
it started up again that there was too much to be said
and not enough words to do it.

Or well, the drive wasn't there.

And now, it's just sitting around in the front lobes, no matter what I do. No matter how many times I try and poke it with a stick of dynamite like a night of whiskey, or a whiff of ring smoke, it is there in the morning, watching me put my shoes on. Starting the car. Negotiating the avenues. Watching the trees and the wires and the airplanes and above all the asses in the other cars, veering into their own selfish agendas. And so I realized, we're all just selfish versions of each other, playing our own games or too busy telling people we're not to realize that we're losing them. This effort, this new web thing, isn't anything special or unique or any of that shit. It is another outlet, pure and simple.

We have lots of outlets. Fbook. Work. Loved ones. School. Significant others. Sports. Books. Fantasies of our own minds that are based on but don't seem to fit any other thematic port of call. I am tired of traditional outlets. And I got tired of fighting for and against them. So chalking this up to that ridiculously kitschy notion that 'when at first you don't succeed...' I said, Alright... fuck it. Let's put our fears out there. Let's say the things we didn't think were worth being said. Let's give Freud one last duckbutter of a chance to prove we're tied to some assinine traditional framework of art/writing. And you know, I don't give a shit who says anything. Or if it's simply my small way of being real at the end of the day. Really, I have too much going on in the other world to care too much about this.

But thats just what this is. Some other world. Where you can say or do, nearly anything permitted within the boundaries of visuals and text. I invite you to play around a bit, find out what you mean by saying what you think you mean. Show another part of the picture. Get your ashes on the keys even. Time is short, but life is long and all that jazz is just another dance between this life and the one you want to lead. You can't lead it being quietly reserved to a daylife spent trying to achieve a dream. Not if you don't know what that dream is.
And then there are dreams,
the thousands of them you have
the thousands I have,
and the music and the art and the words that stay in our heads and Don't get daylight.
Crying fear is just another way of giving up.
Not saying what you mean hurts you before it hurts anyone else.
Let's here some words. Let's put up some pictures in a context. Let's get away from the "this what I'm doing now!" because all that shit is surface. Surface.
Get a shovel. Open doors. Enter. Exit. Nobody cares. Nobody hears you.
But until you introduce that side of things, no one ever will.
I am tired of writing about the daily grind, because it's not daily and it's not a grind. There are countless stopping and starting points and no one willing to say what that mean in between.
Well this is the "in between". This is the new whatever.
For sound. For pictures and words. For reasons you don't even know why.
You just know you have a voice. And here's a reasonably easy place to sing it.
Introduce yourselves, place yourself, and exit at will.

So many things to say, no proper way to say them, no way any of that matters any more.
There are no excuses.

Play ball.