On the other hand, I don't have much right to complain. Some, but truly not much. My worst travails are really due to my own shortcomings. Yes, many people can say that, but I would even venture to guess: not most. I know. I guess that is actually what I do have a right to complain about, should I so choose. That some of those I love, perhaps the majority, suffer troubles not of their own creation.
I used to write poems about it. Now I'm tired. Or tired of going unheard at any rate. Is it my fault I'm quiet? Yes, I suppose it is. The quiet front- man; what a joke that was. Will be again, perhaps. Perhaps assertiveness training would be as useful as skimming the Voice in quest of people to jam with. I've done several open-mic nights, had ample opportunity to chat up fellow musicians. Can you tell that I am shy? That I am reduced to this blog as a means of communication? Well, it's more than that, it's also a way to think out loud, and a portfolio of phrases I may recombine; it's a way to keep writing in the absence, or weakness, of self-discipline. But it's also my cry in the dark. Still, everything changes.
And I am feeling some impetus to change it. I will never be as great as my lumineries, of course, that's why they're idols; give me something to strive for. And perhaps there is an intentional short-circuit in my work. L. remarks that all of my music is mathematically correct, but that she doesn't like much of it. That's all right. I don't like some of it myself. It's just how it comes through me. I am not trying to make fun of mental illness here, but this is a line that just came to me. My work is like paranoid schizophrenia, without the redeeming qualities.