I wrote this a while ago after I was rather …upset. About what – I can no longer remember. I do find it interesting though – the how writing itself allows me to diffuse and forget what I feel. By the time I completed writing this little piece – I felt so much better! The point I am making is this – do not carry anger within you. If done so for long it will cause disease. Or as others have said…dis – ease. Get it out. Do something with what you feel. Every emotion carries some sort of lesson. In my case it is a great energiser. I write music or scribble words in my book when angry. And if I like the words enough they become music. Writing is just a way to clear my head of things that trouble me.
Fuck. That’s the magic word, the golden elixir that unlocks everything in my head. I swish it around like a magic wand when my world is a bit too gray, too white, too black, to filled with diplomacy and “everything’s-gonna-be-allrightness” Shwissh…and then it erupts out of me. Fuck! Fuck! Why can’t I just shut up when I am supposed to? Fuck why can’t I just be left alone to read a book in the bath until my hair curls and my toes become prunish as the book floats abandoned on the water? Fuck!!! I am so tired of “hmming” and “hahhing” when some wannabe musician talks about music and making it in the industry….when I know they would do anything and anyone to get to the top. FUCK! Why are there so many things wrong with the world and myself? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, fuck!
But the word remains in my head. Perhaps if I am feeling generous, after five glasses of whiskey, it escapes and jogs furtively, always looking over its shoulders for my own Thought Police, brandishing an eraser and a flash light; their tools of oppression. And even then, in those precious moments of freedom, what is heard is not a Power-to-the-people FUCK and let’s-take-up-arms-and-start-shit FUCK. Not a lets-drink-and-be-merry FUCK coz-the-world-is ending….but a small fuck. A timid fuck. Like the resigned fuck you give a big man after he thinks he fucked the shit out of you with his medium sized cock. A mercy fuck where I lie and say “that was….” as I exhale my cigarette for dramatic effect “so good”.
I don’t tell the little man that a good fuck, like anything I value, I keep to myself; wrap around me on a cold night as I drive. Those fucks stumble out of me, like a drunken man stammering to find words, or the keys to the car he knows he should not drive. Those fucks are so dangerous they could very well start a bloody revolution baby….
Instead I sit in front my cheap keyboard, the one I will never get rid of. The one he bought me at a trade fair years ago; the one I composed my first song on. I hunt for paper and a pen. Make a cup of coffee, light a cigarette until ….a Bigger Silence gobbles up all the big, small and unspoken fucks and orders them into coherent sentences, into melodies, into Music.