Outside birds sing … dawn chorus … faint light appears through the skylight above me … a hum and the faint tap of my Spen stylus … me trying to write about what is in this moment
… tiredness behind my eyes …
apps are the Alladins cave … I lie awake all night searching for more and more … I always come back to Snotes. Must leave this device downstairs at night – must!
Feel better for writing about it all though – money low again – gig tomorrow night with bass player – should sleep – will have to cancel lesson tomorrow – no time for me … hardly – only way to get time for me is to lie in bed at night writing on my device … I have no children to carry my genes on – how strange – this particular billion years old evolutionary line – ends here – with me …
and yet, as there is only this moment what does it really matter?
l lie in bed waiting for Godot … oh how far does it go? – this spirit and spiral the past is just a memory, the future is ? … I close this ragged door and the pitiful strangers pass through … they collide and ricoche across tragic ballroom floors, they dance heavily on the poished wood, their heavy, muddy boots, dragging.
Where are they/we now?… our apples smelling over-ripe, in their orange boxes, stored on the dry, dusty floor of the woodshed at the bottom of that muddy track .
oh, take these blinkers from my eyes
… let me see again
… through this silly, rattling rain, hammering lightly on the corrugated iron of the goat’s shed at bottom of the garden. And beyond the shed: the ditch and beyond the ditch: the field, where the black and white cows sometimes ran …
…oh yesterday is gone and I’m learning,
… who knows maybe I’II have a family yet?
… and maybe there is another lifetime, endless Planet Earths, in endless, different dimensions, and us, merely transfering from one to another.
… and my own father’s life has finally reached the end … God bless him… it is so wierd.
I am Tony Chapman. … I am still trying to “make it” with my music and art and creative writing. I’m not giving up … this is the story of my journey from here on, AS IT TAKES PLACE these are my footsteps as I plant them… ahead of me lies an unbroken beach of warm sand or an unbroken plain of cold snow… well… first footstep…here l go!
I have found out from googling:
be conscious of it. Then you can make it consistent, a kind of umbrella over all the elements of your art/ music / writing or whatever you have to offer.
2. More later…
http://soundcloud.com/lieghonsea/market-song-written-by-jerry The specks of stars litter the night sky and I sneak beneath them feeling vulnerable to their stare like I’m a mouse and they are countless hawk eyes about to drop. Luckily I reach shelter before they do. And from the safety of indoors, looking out through the window’s glass I appreciate their beauty and apparent distance.
We caught an extravagant bus from Wyoming to Minnesota on the morning of the 10th of June as a ridiculous sun toppled the ancient Aztec buildings of Klaxton Town in a clear mist.
How hypocritical were the Geesha girls, standing by the the rubbish bins waiting for the solid Dustmen to come marching out of the sad, clear mist, stainless steel pitchforks over their shoulders, like so many exquisite Medusas, dressed in their solid golden tunics
he is sporadic and hyacinth-twisted, obscure and delightful, he weaves real, live rainbows into endless staircarpets and walks up them , to the moon.
Dear everyone: the last few blogs were a bit of an experiment – I got a bit lost and mixed up – I think the quality dropped a bit … sorry about that – worrying about money – just got off plane – probably should have gone to sleep instead of lying in bed experimenting between skitch, word press, sketchbook, evernote – agh – well I hope I dont lose any of you – now – to sleep. Thanks for following me – unbelievably special. Best – and of course, happy new year, Tony.
grrrr…. the hole punchers chatter and dilute the truth and dribble it into glasses of alcohol free absinth while the Grand Master Klingon beseeches sad Hercules to give him one more chance, “Give me – please” he sobs and H. turns the other cheek, ” Wack away oh Grand Master Klingon” he sneers, lovingly. Meanwhile outside their tiny window poplar trees delegate insanely in the cursing, evergreen wind and the sun hides, yet again.