Standing on the Shoulders of Dwarves

“That which you love should own your entire being. There should be nothing left of you once your heart has done its work.”

It humors me to throw my writing at a proverbial wall every single week here in the NAP and see what sticks. I cant try and spill my guts, or wax philosophical about some nonsense, or just generally try and expose something about my view of things that connects to someone, somewhere, somehow. Sometimes comment threads spawn off of things we write in here due directly to the subject matter. We might wind people up by professing love for some band that breeds polarity. Bands Like Thin Lizzy are a perfect example. Steely Dan is another. Rush. Etc… The list is probably endless. One man’s trash, and so on, ad infinitum.

I also get a kick out of simply being a sophomoric asshole, spilling vitriol maybe just for the sake, or maybe to try and spark some reaction, any reaction to get things moving around here. This may say more for my lack of writing talent than anything else (well, that and my lack of emotional development). And then again, I can quite honestly just be in a pissy mood, ready to deliver the goods, and genuinely angry about something.

Ridiculous, I know, but there it is.

But I hope that the balance comes when I spend my time in here digging well into myself to expose something about me that makes me human in a way that connects to you by strictly adhering to something that moves me to express the joy of being alive.

Okay, I’m working on that last bit, admittedly, but it does happen, and I think that if you take the time to actually read what I have to say, you might find it happens more often than you might realize, and that I have just as much passion invested into that which I love as that which makes me dive for throats with fangs bared and guns ablaze.

To me, writing about anything other than myself week after week is basically an exercise in torture. That’s why my posts are almost always about me and what I see in the world all around me. Can’t help it. And that’s why my tenure in the minds and eyes of many who have passed through here is severely limited to say the least.

One thing you can be sure of is that my passions will be on full display. And that is truly for better or for worse.

Believe me. I know that my choice of subject matter, and my choice of words can have a very strong effect on you the reader. But you see, dear, that’s the fucking point.

I won’t slag anyone else that has the fortitude to do this week in and week out. But I will say that I won’t be one to pack myself away from these expositional posts and veer off into territory that is safe and sound, free from the peering eyes of others. And no, I’m not claiming any of my coNAPpers have made a habit of doing this either. Sure, there is what I consider too much of that in here, but hell, I am guilty of plenty of transgressions all my own as I have openly indicated on many occasions. I think the difference is that I will gladly and freely admit to my shortcomings, and usually long before I get called out for them too.

For me this is obviously a cathartic experience. But it is also a laboratory for me to work on how I express myself through my writing.

Perhaps an apology is in order for that. I mean, I won’t give you one, but perhaps it’s in order.

I hear the snickering when I espouse my love for metal. That’s fine. I’m not working the missionary angle, vying for converts with myopic zeal. I’m just sharing, or trying anyway, to tell you about something that gives me such unbridled pleasure. Who wouldn’t want to do that?

I have been a guitar player since I was in middle school. That means that I have been a guitar player for 28 motherfucking years. That, ladies, is a real long time. And I am a known traitor among the ranks. I have walked away from that world for a number of reasons. I use many of them to bolster many others. But in all honesty, making music with other people is somewhere along the lines of agony for me. It has always taken the heroic and grandiose efforts of others to coax me into the various musical ventures that I have undertaken, or at least all except for one. Project Grimm was my baby. Sadly it was born with severe birth defects, but I learned to love it all the same. But beyond that anomaly (well, that and my failed solo project), all my traipsing through the halls of band frivolity has been motivated by the efforts of another. Ramon. Scott Grimm. Tom Carter. The list is replete with people who have given me a reason to want to make the effort.

Slowly but surely I have shaken that which has drawn me to the humility and discomfort that has always accompanied being in bands (and even recording solo for that matter).

So what is my point? Don’t have one in case you haven’t picked up on that yet.

I do this because I want to write and I want to be read and I want to get in on the party.

Music? Yeah. I listen to a hell of a lot of it, and I still love the hell out of it. Guitar? Yeah, I still play it regularly, though I have dropped the self-borne pressure to create tangible pieces of music, since ultimately I am my own audience, and my audience doesn’t give a shit about the completion of anything other than the immediate expression that comes with the way I play. Joy! How thrilling it must be to read about that exclusionary tactic!

I am always amazed to read what the rest of you come up with every week, even though I am amazingly often utterly baffled by why it is that whatever many of us choose to talk about is so completely uninteresting to me. I imagine that the above statement should offend nobody, but if so, my apologies. Just keep in mind how much you like to read about metal, or my personal problems, or how deeply taken I am with someone, and then accept that I am equally baffled by tales of ________, or the life changing concept of _________, and how you have always had a soft spot for ________. Cool?

Look, I don’t know why I am the way I am. Like all of us, I am an amalgamation of my upbringing, my life experiences, my chemical makeup, and whatever else you need to add in there to feel comfortable appeasing your beliefs. All I know is that I am honest and comfortable myself, digging right into the heart of what is important to me and just throwing it out there. I know that I am received as juvenile at times, mercenary, unfair, and sometimes just plain mean. I will accept all of those labels and then some. For me, I have to give you all that I have in order to communicate that of which I find importance. That includes a deep and undying passion for life and for this world. I know it’s a contradiction. No one can simper and crow like I do, and yet I need to feel. I need to know that I am alive. I need to know that I exist and that I am vital and that this life is for now, and for always counting me in on the roll, because the moment I think I am out of the loop, it’s over.

There is an edge that is skittering towards all of us all of the time. We may veer directly into it sometimes, caught completely off guard by its coming out of nowhere (or so it would seem). But this is the edge of being that hoards all the really good stuff, and the only way to grab any of it is to get right up in there. I get tired like anyone, and I get scared like anyone, and I get real fucking complacent like anyone. But sometimes – and maybe it comes less and less, and maybe it is coming more and more – sometimes that edge shows itself, and I will be god damn ready to ride it with reckless abandon, because I need some of that good stuff.

I won’t play in another band unless I think I can remove the tendency to push away from that edge, and instead focus on getting as close to it as I can and staying there for as long as I can bear. That is now, for me, the essence of expressing myself through music, and I won’t tolerate anything less from anyone, especially myself.

Yeah I hear you, what a fucking elitist.

I have found a true partner in writing. Mind you, I’m not saying I am the kind of writer that I want to be. I am not and have never been goal minded. I detest that shit with gusto. But occasionally I break down and develop a major one. I want to write a book and get it published. That’s a goal. Jenna Jameson can find time between cocksmoking and snowballing to write several novels. I’ll take one. Miley Cyrus can shit out an autobiography about god knows what, since she’s only 15, for fuck’s sake. I just want to get published. Even that no-talent assmonger Anthony Kiedis has a fucking book out. I didn’t even know he could read. Me? You get the picture.

I know, I know. Write one. I know, I get it. I’m not an idiot. The thing is, I want to write the book that makes me happy. I am not currently in a position to do so at the moment. I’m sorry, but I’m like the character, Locke, in that show, Lost (thanks Ryan, you fucker, for lending me seasons one and two). I just have a feeling for why things are with me, and until the time feels right, I don’t tamper with the order of stuff. I know, again, I know, I’m a fucking nut job, but I also happen to know myself pretty damn well. It’s a process, and the process is still unfolding. I’ll put it this way: right now, and for the past several years, it has all been about testing the waters. You don’t want to jump in and find you can’t swim, and you don’t want to dive right in only to find it’s fucking freezing in there. You ease in and make it work for you.

God, I make myself sick sometimes.

I’m just saying, my day may come. Then again, it may not. I have spent countless hours working on my writing, and thinking about it as I saunter through my life like a 200-pound baby. I have grown quite fond of creating the written word. I’m no fool. My talent is marginal at the very best. I just want to make myself happy. On balance, I have been very lucky so far by those standards. I’ll leave you folks to it now. It’s time for more beer.

Wish me well. Just do. Wish me well and be on your way. You’ve all got posts to write too. And if you aren’t in the hallowed halls of the NAP as a writer, then wish me well from the sidelines, where you wallow in silence, not feeling you have a place among this coterie of jesters. You do. You do, anonymous spies and anonymous participants. You do, indeed. Now, wish me well and be on your way.

Enjoy your Tuesday.

Here’s Bob with the weather.