September 25, 2012 9:38 PM

Some days, I just want to rock out, feel the pull of a string from my mind through the lattices of muscle and memory which extend outward, thick motion and heavy figuration, intuitive and thoughtless, mushy with inarticulation. Meaning isn't important; I hardly practice guitar anymore; my drumset is beautiful but lackadaisical; bass is pure waste. I am definitely not a savant, schooled clean and proper along a stave. Whatever skill I have is borne out of a hard desire, a primitive vocabulary, a deft understanding of a chosen few words through repeated, reflective use. What can those few words be filled with, and for how long before they burst into meaninglessness? Can your total artistic work be simply the act of filling? Is a day-old, reanimated almond croissant as delicious as a fresh one? How do I fill a power chord with almond paste? I've started to take it as a blessing that the creative process never gets easier, always as surprising and heart-wrenching as the last time. It makes the discovery of something new all the sweeter.

Also, it's been decided -- I'm moving, and I'm staying there. For how long, I don't know, but it will happen, come next January. Nothing has been promised and I'm a little frightened by it. Seems like a healthy choice to me!

And maybe I'll be more a bit more frequent than this twice-a-year check-in. I forgot how I miss this.