Being a songwriter from the 1960s and '70s folk genre, self-exposure has never been a deal with me. I don't have any real problem with you knowing about my vulnerabilities and foibles. In fact, blogging is for me just another avenue on the greater road map of being an artist...
My real problem is and has always been that there's always so damned much in me that I cannot seem to express. Not well, that is. It's one of the inner demons that keeps me up at night wracking my brain for the words. When I cannot climb beneath my own skin and pinpoint what it is I'm feeling or thinking, I resort to memes and rants. There's a time for that, too. If every entry was one of self-analysis and introspection, I'm sure my readership would drop significantly. Besides, the other half of me really is a clown, and that's fine.
Tonight is one of contemplation for some reason. I've been feeling unusually artistic since my new meds kicked in last week, and it feels like parts of me that have been asleep for the past ten years are beginning to wake up. I'm actually thinking of writing a cycle of a dozen or so songs. Not Classical composition, folk music. Sort of a record of the past decade's trek through a vast, foggy, dark ocean. I'm not there yet, but words are beginning to simmer. When they come to a rolling boil they'll rise to the surface and I'll write them down. I don't really care if anyone else ever hears them or not, they'll be the chart that will show me where I got lost at sea, and how I found my way back. But this will take more contemplation that I can manage in one night. I still need to get those particular gears oiled and moving again.
