I know this.  I know that I know this.  I am occasionally a drummer, and often a hummer, and alone or around people who don’t mind that I can only carry a tune when equipped with a sizable bucket, I am a singer.  But, realistically, I am not a musician.  That’s okay – everybody’s got their thing, and while I can appreciate and love and revel in music, I am not equipped to make it with any real facility.

Here’s the problem: ever since I read the thing and then wrote the thing about belligerent essentials, there has been a song punching the back of my brain.  It is a song I am in no way equipped to write, and if I did try to write it, it would end up being a hunchbacked quasimoto of a thing that limped along and said nothing like what I wanted it to say.  Words I can do, and meter I can occasionally do, but words + meter + tune = Motley’s Brain Explodes.  But it has a beat! You can hear it and feel it in the way the words come out in the rant, in the way they line up together to try and kick down doors.  There is a thing there that wants to be a thing that people can howl along with and fling at their enemies while taking back wild spaces for themselves, even if it’s only in their own heads.

Or, on the other hand, maybe that’s just the part of my brain that makes up things telling me that there should be a song like that, and it’s just making up things again.  I don’t know.  But it’s infuriating, whatever’s going on.  My right brain is eating my face.  Everything punchy that the phrases can slip into has the words kicking into the backbeat and distracting me.  Because they pulse, like adrenaline junkie music.  Except I can’t make adrenaline junkie music, so there’s nowhere for it to go.  So I am trying to Rubix Cube this thing that wants to be a song into something I can actually make, so I can get it out of my head at least enough to get around it and back to the things I am trying to work on.

Once again, I am living in a land of arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!  So maybe I will find a big piece of posterboard and a Sharpie marker and write all the phrases that want to line up with stompy boots and kick down doors and stomp to that fucking beat, and then it will at least be out, and not in the way of everything else.  Then they can live in big letters and no lines and be waiting for when I can figure out what in the hell I am going to do with them, and they will not chew on me in trying not to be forgotten.  This is a plan, I think.

Today I pack for a trip to the Frozen North.  Packing includes acquiring and becoming functional in the use of little voice recording gear, so I can make at least some practical use of 20+ hours in the car this weekend.  Maybe some good stories will come out of it; who knows?  I am determined to stare into the teeth of the Feeling Like a Crazy Person Talking to Herself tiger and giving it a good kicking.  It’s the only way I will ever get past it.  With enough practice, it will feel normal, like so many other things.  If nothing else, I can get a lot of good notes on “this is the sound of” type things out of my head and onto the record, so that I don’t lose track of them, and then once I am better at getting my right brain to stop eating my face, I can get more detail of the scenes and people that live in the music onto paper or at least into words.  Now I just have to figure out how to translate that smell-o-vision 5000.

Advertisements