I think of books as very, very different from songs. I consider song, like, the primal state of human beings. It’s the first thing you do when you are born is you start to sing, whereas writing is artificial and awesome but totally different thing. It’s sort of like comparing making a fire to building a house.
The song is fire. You react to it primally, instantly. You don’t have decide whether you like it. And you don’t really have to sit down and think about it much after you’re done listening to it. It really does run through you like wind, whereas a book is a journey. It’s a thing you agree to go on with somebody. And I think every reader’s experience of every book is going to be different.
Obviously, I hope everybody who likes my stuff enjoys the book, but I do think it’s a different sort of ride. It’s more of a marathon. My songs tend to sprint towards some epiphany and then explode.
shout out 2 everyone who is tryin to fight the creeping sense of dread w temporal things
Hey hey thanks to everyone for saying nice things with regards to my…overly eventful Saturday. Very lovely of you. I’m healing up pretty well so far — it still looks like someone took a weedwacker to my entire body, but it’s becoming much less painful to complete crucial life tasks like HOLDING OBJECTS and WALKING AROUND. I can also now state with confidence that I didn’t contract Leptospirosis from drinking a bunch of river water…so morale is on the rise around these parts (:
So my Saturday was pretty scary.
You can hear the rain coming
about eleven seconds before it hits
heavy and all-surrounding,
silencing the forest with a
You can feel the current shifting
about eight minutes before it surges
steady and fearsome,
suffocating your movements with a
I can feel the sadness building
about an hour before it breaks
exhaustive and overpowering
all hollow aching and dragging
pitiful questions across time zones,
all wanting and waiting and
turning over long-dead conversations
in the palms of my hands.
to do, then?
beneath dark exotic branches
and cling to jagged limestone formations
that rip the flesh from my body
Waiting for the day
when I surrender to the wildness
Waiting for the day
when I let the current
So that I can finally
leave you behind
without ever having to
turn my back