So what has changed 25 years later? Good question. I don't really know. Maybe I needed to read a thousand or so more books. Maybe I needed to go to a bunch more concerts. Maybe I needed to discover jazz. And Kerouac. Maybe I just needed to live.
All I know is that this feels right... and I'm determined to make it work. It feels weird saying that. Good, but weird.
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From: Duke DeMondo'))
To: The Hot Topic Collective
Re: Writing Ambitions
Is there a thought more potent with regards stirrin' the sour waters a' insomnia than the notion that, at 63, a fella will be as far forward, career-wise, as he is at 23? (It’s nothin' short a' shameful, an' a touch ironic, that I couldn’t grasp a better word than career just now.) Not a day passes that I don’t get myself wound up twenty shades a' mental with regards When Will Stuff Happen?
When will a fella be paid to write, that he might spend his days thinkin' a' new jokes involving “fuck” an' not have to worry 'bout also, seems I’m starvin' an ain’t an ounce a' chow.
When will sympathetic ears light on mine net records an say “Oh, how 'bout we give you the money for to play this nonsense an also survive”?
The thought that, as far as statistics would suggest, never is the answer, well, that’s a mighty cripplin' mind-fry right there.
Getting older an' closer to the age when a fella has to say “Right then. Looks like it’s the Civil Service till I end up dead 'hind a spreadsheet an' no one notices till the death-stench starts fuckin' wi' the pot-plants.”
The glory of the web-net is that anyone can fling words an' songs an' images up yonder an' have folks read, hear an' watch. The terror of it all is that, yeah, anyone can.
“Yeah, he’s a writer an' some sorta song-flinger.”
“Wow, that’s great.”
“Yeah, posts it all on the internet.”
“Oh. I thought maybe he was a proper one.”
It’s surely not enough to produce, cause we all do that, look here, can’t move for screeds an' melodies an' prose an' poetic fuckery. Some blockage up yonder, somethin' keeping a fella from slinkin' that bit further 'long the line, from the Amateur to the Professional.
There’s only so many lovely words a couple eyes can read before they start toyin wi the brain-glands, sayin “But if it is so very pleasant, how come The Real World remains oblivious?”