One of my biggest fears is becoming the ticking of time. On a subsonic level it is becoming pervasively loud, at least within my own cochlea. My guts are churning an ever increasing pool of ideas for projects and the act of juggling and sustaining each and everyone with a mighty and passionate fervor seems to be egging on this proverbial tick-tock that sends shivers down my spine. It's attempting to shatter the child-like hunger I have to create. I get the feeling this tick-tock wants to co-opt the creative spirit into a mechanical act of production. Churn and churn the goods and get them on the market. Is the capitalist trying to wear my artistic drive like a fine suit or disguise? My how the day flies by and how I kick myself for all I accomplished was write a short story, several stage sketches, write part of a screenplay, send out some promotional e-mails, cook a fine meal, read to refresh my command of the english language. And the capitalist that likes to wear my creative skins does chide me for not summoning the revenue. My I'd like to kick modern money mechanics in the gut and run like a child into the fields and build a strange fort and relax for a bit, truly let my imagination run wild.
Tonight I'd like to induce a dream, where I drink absinthe with an unknown and forgotten novelist in Belgium, in the late 1800s. We will revel in the absinthe guzzline and exchange thoughts.