writing and stuff.
I’ve been writing a ton lately - I’ve always had a lot to say - but the writing part of my brain works entirely differently. When I’m talking I sort of wander around making analogies and describing. An example: yesterday at work I said, “Am I the only one who feels like we’re fixing the air conditioning in a car that doesn’t run?” When I write - all the describing just sort of happens. It wasn’t always this way - I’ll admit. I found a story - one of 2 fictional stories that I’ve ever completed - that I lost somewhere around 1998. I found it, and I’m going to type it up so I don’t lose it again - and I’m going to show it to one person who has already read it and was (I guess) sorta trying to help me find it. But I have a different idea now about writing. I have a different idea about many of the creative type things I do. They’re for me now. That’s vague I know, but I’m going to do that thing I do and wander for a sec.
When I was 17 I went to the art supply store and bought a big pad of newsprint and some chalk pastels with my friend Larry. We went to the mall which had a big open space in the middle. I laid down on the floor (in the middle of the mall) and started drawing these huge pastel drawings. We were there for at least a couple hours. Within 10 minutes we were completely surrounded by people 4 or 5 deep (which I didn’t notice at first.) When I noticed, I started tearing drawings out of the book, rolling them up and handing them to people. I did 15 or 20 drawings and gave them all away. Then the rent-a-cops told us that we had to go because the second story balcony was starting to fill up with people too, and the stores called them and asked if they would remove us. We packed up and left. This whole fountain area was full of pastel dust. I can barely remember what those drawings looked like (except one) and I wish I had it now.
I’ll stop the wandering and say, “same thing with poems, same thing with stories.” I’ve always given that stuff away - freely. Then I heard someone tell me my own story. Not to sound too dippy - a whole bunch of bad “energy” showed up. For the last couple years I’ve been trying to eliminate that darkness, and about 95% of the time it’s gone.  I hate when it comes back - it’s painful.
The point of all this is that now that I’m writing again, I’m going to put it all in a well - a box or something, for someone to find when I’m an old man - or when I’m dead or something. Maybe I’ll put a note on the top - I’ve been known to do this - that says: “If you find this… use it in whatever way you feel like.” Maybe I’ll get some post-mortem karma. There’s never enough of that for a guy that’s made the kind of mistakes I’ve made.
