Words From The Midwest XXIV

Good evening, all rapidly receding; all trim inhibitions; all bold or tectonic. You, the passerby on the sand, irrecriticly unpronounced on the riverbed, shapeless and beguiled inner states.

I sit here writing to you from a computer with a broken screen. Even as I write this, there is something of an old school tv fuzziness and a large crack diagonally from left to right. But, really, my point is that please forgive me for any misspelled or made up words. I’ve found in all of my time writing that sometimes I use a word that I’m almost certain I’ve never heard before. It’s a strange little trick of the mind; it’s like when, in conversation even, you use a word that you understand in context but can’t define. It’s compulsions, the both, but, telling, so to say.

And commas. Lots of commas.

So, at any rate, I’m used to sounding like a nutcase. But isn’t that the best kind of normal: the lunacy; the derivitives and odd asides. The punctuation and Capitalizations that you want to Believe mean something to the heart of the piece, but the metaphors end up mixed and overwrought and teaming with undesired mish-mash and dirty words. I am what I produce, as they say; or I say…But in being that which is conjured, I can be anything at all. And so I invite the insanities, the oddities; the best and the worst of a mind, twisted. Just to Teach what comes from this place of despair and deceit and darkness, trading such a life with the bright sun of July. Please don’t just up and die, they said.

Now that all that’s out of our system, I can only begin to tell you a little bit about whatever-it-is-these-days: A coupling of mad creativity and the watching of movies I never finish. Just today I couldn’t watch Easy Rider and I couldn’t watch Broadcast News, the former which I’m sure you know was one of the most influential films of the early 70s film explosion in the States, and the latter which is a James L Brooks movie whom I’m supposed to know about or something.

And I’ve been listening to some music. There’s hundreds of those artists begging to be heard on a national level. International, even. And, honestly, they might get there. They might tour regionally for the next howevermany years and play until they’re dead, making a shit living, but affording a lifestyle, nonetheless, and getting to Europe a few times over the years, and busking in Dublin…I think I’d be just fine with that. I mean, I do have expensive tastes, in one regard, but I also can make cheap, shitty food taste really pretty good, although, I must say that it might just be that all it usually consists of me doing is frying it with some butter or canola oil. Sometimes Olive Oil but that’s a bit more expensive. I buy a gallon of Canola (which I should have capitalized to begin with) for like fifteen American Dollars, or whatever, and, yeah. It’s whatever. It’s oil.

I digress.

I bought a new outfit which I’ve been wearing sincee I bought it yesterday: grey wool pants with a polyester lining, and a real cool plaid button down, 70s style shirt. One of the ones with the little pieces of plastic in the collar to keep it straight. I’ll have these clothes for the rest of my life. I really like being in that place in my life where I’m doing what I want to do and making the music I want to make and rambling on the internet about whater-the-fuck, but also of knowing I’m going to live in this apartment for another year and a half, and finally being in the position where money is coming in…And everything I buy I’ll never get rid of. I was there years ago and then purged when I moved West…I’m getting the CDs made for the Simplifiers LP this month sometime and I already have the sleeves made for about a dozen of them: I bought stickers of the album cover and stuck them to the center of grey, 100% recycled cardstock. I think I’m also going to get a stamp with The Supposed So written on it so I can buy some more of those sleeves and do the same thing for a good number of my back catalog.

I’ve got some shows coming up, which is cool. I was basically just emailed by a touring artist coming through Cleveland, asking me if I wanted to play a set to open for them. And, of course.

There’s more to be said about all of that, I’m sure, but all I really want to do is to drink this beer and smoke a Pall Mall Cigarette and sit in the very bearable 40 degrees and actually enjoy the whole of the smoke: Winter time is no good time to be a smoker. If only I could smoke inside.

That would be gross though. I already smell like cigarettes all the time anyway.

What else…

I wrote the first four songs for the album after Dad’s Typewriter (or maybe before, I haven’t decided which songs I want to get out faster). They’re really good. Probably the best shit I’ve ever written. The LP is going to be called, War and Fashion.

More on that at a later date, perhaps. Perhaps not.

I’ll leave you here, as I can only go on for so long before the redundancies float in and the words melt into each other; the punctuation is off, the context is dim.

No matter.

We seek for strength until warmer days.

They’re coming.

Regards,

Michael

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