17.Feb.2001

knees

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The Apex of my Stupour

The urge in me to make something is promient -- it is not palpable, and I suffer that -- immensely. Another lover wakes me. I wrote this when I doubted all that I could ever do. I no longer doubt myself at this point. I no longer fear. I ask that God bring whatever he has laid before me on. I dare him, actually. I dare him to find me a piano and to allow me the force to bring others to their knees -- like so many years I have spent on mine -- beseeching a mother whose personalities never understood, or like a father that was never truly there, or a father that I never knew. I remember trying to toss tangible things that someone could understand, the shattering of a mere glass, perhaps they could fathom the anger, the need to always break free, the need to always be understood in the language that trascends: the language that is music. Everyone is made from music. Our genetic code makes ones and zeros that somewhere, in some code or another, make sense, that make a melody, soothing but graceful, unabashed, I want to bring it all to life on a piece of paper that is unreadable to the human eye. I want to bring it to life to someone who can someday wake up and understand what it is I am trying to say. And do I understand what I am trying to say? No. i will never understand it. But my hands -- these hands -- these child-like hands, these Charlie Brown hands -- will always create, and always beseech an entity to comprehend, to speak the same language. Lyrics, no, lyrics would only taint what was supposed to be said. These flats and these sharps make all that is me, make all that is not understood, and all that is not heard. I will break free, and I wlll ... I will fucking bring you to your knees.

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time & machine