Finished CHAPTER ONE of my book last night. Took me maybe half an hour, but I got into it very deeply. I couldn't even concentrate later on Free Jazz With Fred on the radio. I listen to Fred EVERY week; Fred makes me smile. (Okay, okay, so one week, Fred was playing this gahd-awful shit played by some sort of steamroller-machine, and it was supposed to be like, perfectly mathematical or something, but it still sounded like a steamroller... Fred didn't make me smile that week...)
When I write -- REALLY write, not just scribble in this journal -- it's a very simple process. I go outside someplace, maybe have a cigarette, look up at the sky, take the deepest breath in the world, and say, very quietly, "Okay, I'm ready." And then, I just kind of go to sleep. I don't remember much of anything; it's just as though I've been taking a long, wonderful, dreamless nap, and somebody else, some demon, some god, some spook, who-knows-what, possesses me, uses my body, and then when I'm too tired to support it's presence anymore, it leaves, and I've got this work in front of me. I barely remember doing it. I barely know what it's about. It's not MINE at all. I feel I must have been asleep; there are no little daydreams or rambling thoughts, no distractions at ALL. Once this thing is in me, it's IN me, and it doesn't allow for distractions and daydreams.
Went to the Spar Saturday night to listen to the jazz band. They were a bunch of white guys who played Frank Sinatra and thought they had the blues. They didn't have the blues at all. Not, of course, that white guys can't get the blues, because white guys CAN get the blues, and white guys CAN play jazz. THESE guys didn't have the blues; they were grinning like they'd been invited to a cocktail party with a CEO. That's not the blues. I could be wrong, I REALLY could, but I'm pretty sure that having the blues -- the honest-to-God BLUES -- and having a cell phone, are mutually exclusive.
Fred knows what it's all about. Fred plays music that comes from the DemonGodSpook. I listen to Fred every Sunday night. Fred, in all likelihood, is the biggest dork you'll ever meet. I don't know; I've never met him. But, just a guess: I'm betting he's a huge dork. But whatever; I still listen to him every Sunday night. Last night was Eric Dolphy night. If you know who that is, you get a Special Magic Prize. If you can name a musician who sounds like a steamroller, you get two Special Magic Prizes.
I couldn't concentrate on the show last night. I couldn't do anything but stare out the window at the bay. I'd finished CHAPTER ONE; I'm sorry, kids, but after that kind of experience, I couldn't even tie my own shoes. Besides, CHAPTER ONE is the third-best part of the whole book.
Hell, I'm STILL exhausted...
Think I'm going back home to take a long, long nap...
~Helena*