Full Face

Andre 3000 released a solo flute album. Also, forgive me, I'm typing on the work keyboard and am unsure how to put the accent over the e. Anyways, this solo flute album is the first thing he's released on his own in nearly twenty years. And why is that significant. This man, known for being one of the greatest rap artists alive, preceded in artistic death by a lifetime of achievements and good works, awards, the fruits of his influence, and so on and so on. He released a fucking solo flute album. The flute - foreign muse. No history. No highlight reel. It is an infant in his hands, and he, a nervous first-time dad. And to the WORLD, he presents this flute like the baby Simba over Pride Rock. The POINT I'm trying to make is...I should've taken up flute in school.

No. That's not the point. I never did get much into woodwinds, though I've every reason to believe I would've been successful. Music is easy. Making it is easy. Did I just call the flute a woodwind?

I'm fucking depressed, alright?


{P]Main Entry South N Door DSM (148B) is active.

{P]Main Entry South N Door DSM (148B) is inactive.

This, and for fucking hours today.



I can't write raps anymore.

Or I CAN, but it no longer feels like invention. It is a grown man covered in hair and moles. I have raised it my entire life and gotten little out of it. Which is terrible. Makes it sound like the point of having a child (muse/creative endeavor/whatever) is to get something in return, and that's not why, but it ends up being true, doesn't it? Usually? My poetry has put me in the right place to meet some of my absolute favorite people on the planet. People who I never would've encountered otherwise, whether by some geographical obstacle or the fact that I'm real easy to Not talk to at a party. People who have enriched my life immeasurably. For this, poetry will always have a room in my house, but it's getting old and doesn't need its own fucking bathroom, alright? Guest room for you. In the back. Where the heat stopped working so I tell you by not telling you that you're gonna have to make some decisions if you want to stay warm this winter.

So now what?

I wanted to get into wood whittling. Got the little knives and everything. It takes up more space than I would've thought. I can't do it at home as much because the little wood curls, those white chocolate flammables, get eeeeverywheeeere. It's like the Shawshank Redemption trying to find a place to put em all. (that's not true, I just wanted to make a Shawshank Redemption joke) If I'm being perfectly honest, I'm also afraid of damaging my hands more than they already are. That's not a vanity thing, that's a nerve damage is terribly unfunny thing. As it is, I STILL don't have any feeling in my left forefinger... So even if practice didn't make heaps of splinters, I'd still be a little bit(ch) hesitant to pursue it the way it deserves.

I still draw sometimes. I discovered it was something I could do in 2020. Then some other things happened in 2020 (ha) and drawing, like everything else in my life, seemed really pointless and really stupid and I haven't really done it since. A very brilliant friend of mine says he likes my drawings. And that feels like a billion dollars. That same feeling I get when I write a stupid poem and someone I greatly admire says they like it. The same feeling I get when my dad tells me he's proud of me.

Just kidding. That one never happens.....
Jesus, where was I going with any of this?


Ah. Right. Fucking depressed.

It's a lot of things.

To quote a good song shared by my best friend, "it's a little bit of everything".

I don't know what to do now. I've got my hands on my brain belly, but nothin is kickin. And I'd just as soon abort the creative need, but I don't think I have that much control. In fact, I'm now hooked on a little goblin game on my phone. THAT. Is the control I need. So. I'm going to sit in my office today, another shitty Thanksgiving, and make money. I'm going to let Andre's newborn pull my hair. And I'm going to figure out what it means to be an empty-nester.


Note: I was going to make a joke about breaking up with poetry and then make a joke about the make up part, like not wearing it but even if I did, being completely unwilling to put on a full face for it, and how my mom refers to it a putting on a 'full face' when it takes longer than 10 minutes, and it was going to be really clever, but I didn't end up teeing myself up correctly so now you get this instead of that. Got it?