ICE

I’m up here in my room. I don’t write that much these days. I avoid my brain. But these are phases. Life is a series of phases. When we are clear-minded, we recognize them as phases. As we get older and our brain cells die off like dinosaurs we revisit these phases as though they were new, like a goldfish rediscovering his castle every fifteen minutes. Phases. We stop learning. We start only relearning. As though it were learning. And so. Here I am in my room. Typing a broken keyboard. Writing to no-one. Or everyone. Most writing these days is to no-one and everyone. Tweets, status updates, blogs. Everyone and no-one. It is selfish and selfless. It is hugely egotistical and insecure. The internet is a million more ways to cry for attention, but who can resist? Who? What is the point, Glynn? Stop crying for attention. I cry for attention like I’m crying wolf. I dare myself to put this up with out editing it first. Wolf!! Wolf!!! I was learning to write pop songs today. I was invited. At first it made me sick, but in the end it’s really just like putting a puzzle together and puzzles are fun for a certain part of the brain. But it is an odd sensation to finish a song and not be entirely proud of it. To have reservations about its sincerity. I suppose you get over that when you write in that style. You’re just piecing it together. Ay, me. Next week I start choosing songs to put on my new record. Try to narrow it down. I’m only writing this because I feel like I should be writing it on my website. That’s pretty boring of me. There’s a million things I’d rather write about. Like sex. I like to write about sex because it rolls off the tongue, as it were, but I won’t do that here. I am not so lewd as that. Well, I am. But not in public. There’s not a lot else to say from my bedroom tonight. Most of it goes unsaid; I’m sure the great writers are the ones who go beyond the tip of the iceberg. Most of us live like the tip of the iceberg, just like most of us use a small percentage of our brains- we share only a small fraction of our available love and our available selves and our available knowledge. Especially in reserved Canada. The land of the ice. All our little iceberg tips barely peeking out. It’s a lot easier that way. A lot safer. This is a safe place to live.