This weekend, with the exception of the time spent visiting with my younger brother who is now a Navy boy, was pretty dim. I read an entire book in 1 and a half days. I bought some new cds, and some CD-Rs. Now the slightly less boring part of the workday buffer and loafing zone went as follows.
I spent about 2 hours last night letting falsehoods fly from my lips as if choked by my own voice and my second-hand smoke assailed lungs. I was in an Irish pub last night, by myself, just looking to have myself a pint and relax. Not after my nose received a dark foamy kiss did a couple, probably not older than 27 each, sit down next to me and greet me with a hello. Now you all know how conversation works. Imagine in your mind how 99% of conversations start and start to form, and you'll save me quite a few keystrokes, and these guitarman fingers need some rest once in a while. Ok. Thank you, forgive my digression--now, I took it upon myself to introduce my person as Clyne Shaw, a Arizonian musician and columnist for the Tucson Citizen. I spent a while lying. About history, family, everything. Lying hard to these strangers, who I really, for one reason or another, didn't feel like letting in to my own personal worldshell. And goddammit, it was fun.
Now let me take a minute to address the act of lying in this situation. Now, I'm not someone who overly lies. But, in this case, it was harmless, but had a bit of purpose to it. How about this: Simply shooting a gun off isn't very much fun. But shooting at clay pigeons.. like these.. was a riot.
I was the same person underneath though. I did this partly out of social reservation, partly out of feeling the natural human urge to bullshit with my fellow clueless carbon-beings, (as if we don't do that every single day with 99% of the population), and partly out of just trying to spend some time away from my cover. A 22 year old, redhaired musician with strange tattoos and a relaxed wariness. Uneducated at the moment. He's probably "saving money." I'll bet his songs are little nut clusters of broken hearted croon and socio-political radical nonsense. I'll bet he bites his nails. I'll bet he is grappling with himself.
Now that..is something only your humble author could write. What some other hack with a dirty computer would tell you is completely beyond me. Far enough beyond me that it's great.
Say 'ah'. Education, birthday, birthplace, geneology..and cars and sports and girls and TV and consumers and public service and jail and college and what happens?
An egotistical creative orgasm that you flaunt with every 'where are you from and where are you going?' moaned through the walls of some smoked out cosmic motel room. That heavy mist of someone's accelerated heartbeat and accelerated wasted or grasped life. You could breathe it in that motel lobby or a subway station. Perhaps an airport. The good ol' wall of idyllic and material personal history and details that we all seem to love to want to glean from the green streak running through the hair of the Goth at the bus stop or from the giant teardrop ring that the black woman who rings up your Froot Loops at the grocery store. It's all pretty semantics, and allows for some quick stereotyping. It's also efficient. It's as if they, in one shining, glorious moment, are the focus of that Time magazine cover photograph, and the discarded rest of the neighborhood or childhood tramua or youth liberation movement or pop icon admirers or energy crisis or divorced parents that are so integral of the subject's existence up until the present, lie cropped on the cutting room floor.
So I think I spent some time with different cuts on the floor. Who are some strangers to know? Who am I to even know? My trashcan bound celluoid changed from a twin brother and two cats and a cool family originally from Texas to whatever the hell I wanted it to. Not forever, just for now.
It's hard to make sense of this, but if you can get something, well gee golly shucks, neat.
