Reposted from the original blog – mythotmess.com:

Here I am. Writing. So proud of myself yes…yaaaaasssssss. 11:01pm, not asleep on the couch, like the last three nights assed the fuck out at 7:30 of that bomb kush and days off, and here I am, its fuckin dark outside, I had a hard day beating grown men’s asses, brain awake. And hands typing.

In Europe, the need to write took me, every single day. So every single day it was down to the coffee shop, or corner bar for a morning glass of wine, or an evening espresso, down to write and write and fill the pages of the small leather journal that had been carried around Europe. Every day, even if it was nothing, just blahlalalalababababa ddooooooodeeeeblop, and words with letters that didn’t quite fit, or only fit in other languages, some made up entirely, I would write.
Here is my question….Why was that so easy to do there, but not here?
Is it because writing every day, all day, is what I set out to do?
Or is it because I was lonely and switched people for pages?

These are the two first answers, shining equally over all the piddily other lame excuses for not writing my little heart out the entire time I’ve been home, these ones I can’t pick between. This question needs to be addressed before I ask the main question, which will directly follow this ever so brief discussion.

The first answer: “It is because writing every day, all day, is what I set out to do.”

Leaving from LAX is always fucking hell. And when you are going to be gone for a month, no, even packing for a week sucks balls, but that month of fucking luggage and the ride there, packed car, unsure of what quite to say other than “goodbye” or perhaps “in case I never see you again” but not actually saying your goodbyes, too nervous of its actuality, trips, airplanes trains and automobiles, it was through all this, I started to write, because when I made the plans to go, I wanted to go for a month and do just this, exactly as I did. And it was fantastic. This choice, this answer is the empowering answer.

Second Answer: “Loneliness.”

most artists tend to excel at their art, when they are fucked up, fucked over, tormented, depressed, or just plain lonely. Not to say you ol flamey pie is fucked up fucked over, tormented or even depressed. But there, admittedly, and self punishingly, I was lonely. And I loved it. I danced in the loneliness, wrapping its cold embrace around my northface fleece jacket, puffing my hash filled cigarette smoke into its frosty goodness while scribbling illegible words down on soggy Louvre pond water soaked pages, sipping a fine glass of merlot (with the “t” sound for kicks) from a bottle with a brown bag around it. I like being alone. Its good for thinking, and wandering aimlessly, and discovering. And I was never really alone, constantly surrounded by people, passing through my arms and through the streets and fields to the hills, all of them just passing passing passing, living, going going trying goodbye. But I certainly didn’t stick with any one. Is this the cause behind the productivity? Plenty of time to observe and not enough time actually in moving life with the rest of the creatures in motion constantly going doing, always rushing.

Main Question Time

Can there be two answers to one question? How gray is gray, from black to white? like Charcoal? gunmetal? silver? How many answers can be fixed to one question? And how many answers can you make up before insanity hits and brain goes fucking bonkers?

Main Answer Time

I have no fucking clue and refuse to take on the responsibility of accepting a real answer.

Here’s to making noise in the night your neighbors wish they could join.