Futile Horn

06.20.2003 - 12:43 am (how many winters allotted)

I realized that you are only as good as the song you wrote today. But some days you don't write any songs, and then you aren't worth anything at all. Tomorrow, what you did today won't matter of course, but the pain of being worth nothing will still have been strong.

I haven't been getting so little sleep so that you would say that I've trouble sleeping, but I've been getting little enough sleep that I feel like I am walking around in a dream. The effect of this is that you feel that nothing that happens matters at all, but deep down somewhere you are aware that it all matters a great deal.

I appreciate a little sleep depravation. Intelligence is a subconscious entity. I used to do writing exercises to train myself to tap into the subconscious during an alert taste. I think I made some sort of progress with that, but a more important thing I accomplished is that I realized that my soul is ugly and that I like that it is ugly.

I want a beautiful body and an ugly soul. When I first thought that, I was repulsed because it sounded like a character from a daytime soap, but then I realized that is faceless beauty and a naive ugly. Ugly doesn't mean evil, it means malformed, misshapen. I like that I am misshapen.

Whatever it is I know, I will be unsure of in a few days or even a few hours. In a way, it is interesting because the world is constantly rebuilding, reshaping itself. In another way, it is bad because nothing is ever really real.

Of course, if nothing is really real, then I never really was, which is both terrifying and the only comfort.

Born to play the funky céilí,
Futile Horn