But not the same
I could write something
But it wouldn’t be good
I’m not “inspired.”
Could be just me
6/13/2017 Deon Mumple
OK those of you who only like the poetry can go away now, 1,2,3,4,5,6,5,4,3,2,1.
When Jim Morrison was alive, there was apparently an incident at a concert, and from one I recently attended it probably really did happen. No, not THAT incident, if you’re a Doors fan. It probably happened nightly at the concerts. The fans were at the stage yelling out that the band should play that one specific, popular, well-known song.
If I did a poetry concert and all you wanted to hear was your favorite poem, and you yelled from the audience and everyone only wanted to hear the one poem, I’d be depressed. I’d like to think I’m more than just a one-hit wonder, not that any of my writing is that great, but that I’d like to think it. You paid the admission price, got your ticket because you like the performer and want to hear what they want to say. Sure, you will probably get to hear the popular thing, but think- the performer has more to offer than that. They have more of a message than just the one popular thing. There are things you don’t know about them. And if you like the one thing, and the style, maybe you’d like the other things they have to say.
Maybe not. In which case, go ahead to the concert and command the performer! “Dance, Monkey, DANCE!!”
There’s an inspiration behind the poetry; there’s a narrative behind the narrative. What you see on Youtube or the news or hear on your favorite music feeds doesn’t tell enough of it. There’s more than just that.
In the same way, there’s an inspiration behind me washing the dishes (or not) and the laundry (or not) and in general, experiencing any kind of joy in life that motivates me to work, or serve, or help. If that inspiration turns out to be fake, or misguided, or dwindles over time, or less than I need or hope for or expect, you might find my motivation diminishes over time as well. Eventually, if the gas tank doesn’t get refilled, the car runs out of gas. Eventually, if you don’t take the car to the mechanic, Penny, the check engine light you have taped over will turn out to mean something (Big Bang Theory, S2E5). There’s a repository, we’ll call it full-service-fuel. Every time you receive full-service of some sort, the repository loses some of its fuel. If that tank doesn’t get refilled, with the right kind of fuel, eventually it runs dry and full-service slows down, or stops entirely, or is broken,
The inspiration behind this blog is to vent, so I don’t care that I only have two real readers, but it would be nice to have a few more. But when you visit, I hope you’ll do more than just rush the stage chanting like rabid fans, “Dance, Monkey, DANCE!”
I hear “Dance, Monkey, DANCE!” from a variety of sources. Work is one, and frankly, I just don’t give a shit any more and I hope something better comes along but I’m not very hopeful. I hope they don’t fire me, because finding a new job sucks ass. Change sucks ass. On the other hand, maybe it would be better after I got over my rage and depression and got off my ass and looked for something better. Maybe I would find it, but I’m not betting on that contingency just the same as I figured I probably lit $4 between the past 2 weeks on lottery tickets.
Mrs. M and the kids are either very slowly learning that my tank is running on “E” with the check engine light on, or they’re about to suddenly learn it. In their own ways, they either drain me or sustain me, and the demands from the audience are frankly depressing. They got in free. They didn’t pay shit for their admission, and they expect a great show, and backstage passes with access to me, my band, our food and snacks and beverages, not to mention all of my damned Skittles, and give nothing in return. They don’t really want to interview me except to ask about their favorite song. They don’t want to take the dog for a walk, or take the trash out, or wash the dishes, or vacuum, or mow the grass, or empty the fucking lint filter on the dryer (or wash their laundry), etc. Well, I played and danced for a long fucking time, and gave encores until you obviously didn’t know the lyrics any more. The concert is over, the performer is tired, so fuck off unless you start the fan club when you go back to your home town, buy the recordings, help out a little around the house instead of proving your talents as lounge lizards, and hey, Mrs. M, how about a little enthusiastic something extra special back in the dressing room once in a while before you bitch about how tired you are and how late it is and how hard you work and what you don’t like giving but you like when people give to you, and before you go off to sleep and leave me to do more “dancing?” (with myself, see also, Billy Idol). In another draining way, my stupid homeowners association. I mean, what the fuck do you do besides take my money and tell me my yard looks like shit when it rains too hard and fast, or tell me my yard looks like shit when it doesn’t rain at all. All you do is drain and there’s no return for my investment.
There should always be a return on my investment, and it shouldn’t be intangible, because intangible is bullshit.
If you didn’t read to the end, good for you. I hope you quit reading a few paragraphs before the previous paragraph, because after that it’s just more shit. If you did read to the end, two things: First, I’m very sorry. And second, I appreciate you and your support. I’m sure it’s just the depression talking, mostly. But fuck it, that’s what motivates me because there’s little else until the next mania. The lack of motivation blocks me from sensing that I’ve accomplished anything even if I have. It’s not exactly writers block, because I just wrote this shit. I even took my meds this morning. Fat fucking lot of good it did. Or, maybe it did what it’s supposed to do and I’d feel even more worthless if I hadn’t taken it. Meh. Enough.
And if you read the whole thing, I’m sorry for de-motivating you from commenting.