Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

The snow is tracked brown on the streets. I jog up to the corner store in my shoes with the holes in the soles. I ussally use these ones only in the house, but since they slip on the foot and are the easiest shoe to just slip on I wear them sometimes out side. The mushy ground shmucks up in to my shoes and I slid in little brown smearing motions. I buy a smoke.

I sit down on the toilet at home, and flip through books I am thinking about starting. The dostoyevsky novel is slow, I think, and need some kind of new fresh writer.

It has been my dream for a while now to start up the "new" thing. Where to go though. Really the moron aproch is not going over well, the drunken writing style has been done. Really the truth is that I write better not drunk, and really I think that is the truth with most writers. Thought that takes a moment on the toilet, can take years to get on to the page.

Hell that is what this one was about. All great thoughts come from shit.

Axanderdeath wrote:Thought that takes a moment on the toilet, can take years to get on to the page.

“A thought that takes a moment on the toilet
might take years to get upon the page”—
a paraphrase of someone else’s thought,
but one that gently sympathizes with
so many would-be artists’ suffering—
or maybe just my own, but that I doubt.
When just to simply feed yourself and wipe
your ass takes years to learn, then skill to type
and word the advent of a thought, to mount
on paper angels’ lyric offering
is damned near insurmountable—and pithiness
appears a goal that maybe ought
not be considered. But to disengage?—
a writer’s pain like sitting on a boil.

Enjoyed your thoughts here Axanderdeath, especially the last few lines.

A pleasure to read you