19 December 2011

December 19, 2011

There are people in the world who don’t need to capture things to make them meaningful. Bird watchers, anthropologists, etc. I envy them. Me: if it’s not down on paper or something, it might as well not have happened. On the other hand, if it is down on paper, then it doesn’t really matter whether it actually happened or not. Fiction and non-fiction bleed together at the edges. Things don’t have to be real for them to be true.

Anyway.

I’m listening to the Mountain Goats right now and the recording is so bad it’s almost more interesting than the music. I keep wondering, Were they happy with this? Was this what they were going for, this 1/4th inch cassette sound, these detuned guitars? But saying something is interesting is not the same as saying you like it. But in this case it is.

I keep thinking about how all the art in our apartment is from Bed, Bath and Beyond.

The air was so misty earlier, I could hardly see out the windows. Apparently a storm is coming. The clouds are sagging because they’re full of rain. And rain — there’s something I don’t totally understand. I’ve seen the pictures in biology books, the circle that connects the ocean to the clouds to the forests, but that doesn’t look anything like what’s happening out my window right now. There aren’t any forests near here.

I think there’s an inverse relationship between how talented somebody is and how much of an ass they are. The most creative people I know are incredibly kind and generous. They’re not all that impressed with themselves.

I can be an ass, though, sometimes. It’s terrible.

There’s this temptation, I guess, to be clever instead of honest. To be complex instead of simple. Everyone wants to be impressive. We want to do things that nobody else would ever think of instead of doing something that feels like us, that feels honest to who we are. My life is not a poem; I don’t think I could ever be a poet. And so on, etc.

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