I Just Fall Into My Work

I had somebody the other day ask me why I wanted to be a writer, why did I like writing, how did I do it, etc. As an art-form, or whatever the hell people are calling it these days - must stay politically correct - but, as a form of artistry, writing can't be pigeon-holed like that. Some people view it as work, others as a hobby, a passion, lifestyle, you get the point.

But it was I who was asked, and upon thinking about it...and thinking about it some more, I have come to realize that I 'enjoy writing' because when its done correctly, a story can be quite powerful in its depth. That doesn't mean it's going to work every time, and I've played this frustrated writer bit far too much. I thought that as an emotional wreck, I may just be able to infuse that back into my work and not be so pressed for ideas. I've got two things working against me, however - my strongest performances only seem to come when I'm emotionally-negative in some way, and I absolutely h. I satate dialogue!

"Why's that?" my conscience asked, from deep within the folds of my grey sweatshirt. I sat huddled over a small dormitory desk in my bedroom. My small laptop's monitor had just blown itself out from the chill of December, but I'd had the foresight to purchase an external display for online use.

"Because, Self, I've told you this time and again before. Having to write a realistic dialogue and build a rapport between two individuals is such a pain in the ass."

"You're going to wind up a shell of a man, boy." Self cackled wildly, teasing me.

I smirked, attempting to twirl in my computer chair, falling onto the floor instead.

Right. Not in my bedroom at home. Ever get so caught p in one thing, you forget another? It sucks.

"I am not," I spluttered, picking myself up and straightening my glasses hanging crookedly on my nose I just need to find the momentum, that's all."

"My stars and garters," the voice cried out jokingly, "was that a trace of worry I heard?"

"What, me worry?" I laughed...gulped.

Oh yeah. Scared shitless, truth be told.

"There's no way in hell this is going to get done to any real standard of quality," I blubbered to myself.

"Why worry?" My inner child piped up, munching on a cookie within my mind's eye.

I paused, throwing the pen down and raising my head, trying to stare incredulously at this voice...which was admittedly all in my head.

"What did you say?"

The kid laughed at me. You hearing voices, Kegan? What are you, some kind of feckin' whackjob?

"What the hell did you just call me? I'll beat the shit out of you, you little tool!" My physical voice seethed hotly...Somewhere in my subconscious, I couldn't believe I was arguing with myself. Hello, Rod Serling.

"Your mother." came the breezy, collected reply from myself. I couldn't believe my inner pomposity. I murmured a few quiet expletives and continued my work, raising my own voice loudly.

"I thought I killed you off last night with the whiskey." I said, recalling the drunken stupor I'd accidentally put myself into. Have you ever been down so far that you just know that if you have to fall any lower, you're going to possibly die?

I have to chuckle here.

Yes, well that was the story of my life. At least for the time being. Chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug. Makes you wanna holler hi-de-ho; burns your tummy don't ya know?...I gotta quit breaking into song like that, it worries me. Some people go to dark places when they're drunk. Kegan quotes Roger Miller.

So as I was saying, it's a pain in the ass to write with any sense of realism when you're not feeling that sincerity to channel your muse. I had taken a few shots of Jameson's to try and relax for once.

"Bad idea, eh Doc?" That damn kid was some Bugs Bunny.

"Yeah, really bad idea. I laid on my floor with the sheen of death-sweat coating my face, and I knew that if I didn't die, I would be okay. Kinda like that song, you know? Rye Whiskey? I'll eat when I'm hungry and drink when I'm dry; if a tree don't fall on me, I'll live 'til I die..."

"Uh-huh," my inner child seemed bored. The twerp. Get me interested in talking and then shut me out. I'd have to have a word with him before my midlife crisis. "So ya got a little drunk, and then what?"

"Then what? What the hell do you think happens? I puked for mercy." I paused here. Man, I have got to get better writers for this stuff.

"And judging from your impertinent mouth," I told him, "I didn't quite bring up the anti-Christ and get rid of you, did I?"

"You're a regular Bob Hope, huh Kegan? Nah, more like hopeless!" I got the vision of Statler and Waldorf, sitting on the balcony.

"Jameson's is top-shelf, friend. Nothing cute about it. I did a couple of shots with some friends, saw death over a day and a half, and vowed to never drink again. Marijuana's never killed me quite like that before."

The silence in the dorm was deafening, Oh, right. The M word is taboo.

"Pothead." My voice giggled. I actually heard it giggle. Annoyed by that sheer fact alone, I smacked myself halfheartedly in an attempt to shut him up.

"I'm not..damn, that hurt! I'm not a pothead, Kegan." There was that exasperation again. "I'm just a little more in tune with life using herbal medicines instead of chemical ones. I pulled open my desk drawers, motioning to the baggie of prescribed painkillers. "I can take a percocet or two, and not even feel it working for my backache."

"Backache, my ass." chortled my inner child. "Why would you have a backache?"

I groaned and laid my head in my hands. Ooh, boy. "The cerebral palsy? Remember? All that blood? You kept yammering on about getting ovulated, and I couldn't see where the cord was?"

"You missed an exit so you smoke pot? Man, you're stupid."

I muttered blackly under my breath. If your inner child dies, do they perform an investigation? Would you become possessed?

"Shut up, dork." Wow. Nice comeback, Kegan. Way to tell yourself off.

"Don't call me names! Mom!" He tried to yell until I tapped my head repeatedly. Like a little fish in his bowl, he tried to swim from the noise.

"We're in college, dumbass. And mom thinks you're dead. Remember the puberty?"

"So...much...testosterone!" wept my inner Kegan. Melodramatic, really.

"Yeah." I taunted. "And all that hair...oh shit, that I'm going to lose...d-a-m-n it!" I drew out the last syllable and shook my head.

What was I rambling on about? Oh yes, so I had gotten drunker quite unintentionally and woke up in vomit.

UPB - Go beyond your expectations of how bad life can get.

"You're rambling."

"I do it often," I replied. "Anyway, drunk, hungover, had papers to do. I had to find a spark of creativity to churn out a quick batch of work. I finally decided to answer my friend, when asked about my writing. I do it because it comes quite naturally, so long as I can talk. I always tend to flourish a verbal pen when I speak, not lying so much as just giving detail. Description has been my rock because having to pull myself from the story -"

"WAIT!" Inner Child screamed. I poked him aside. He nestles in the bridge of my nose.

"Ehem.having to step out of the story and write punctuation with dialog is a perpetual papercut in my mind. Descriptive devices allow me to keep on one task at a time, until it's absolutely necessary to move on. I suppose that writing can be, and in fact used to be this joy, where even I would get into my own work so deeply that I would just have to see what happened next.

I dotted another T, grinned and continued, "I guess you could call it passion, but I have never felt that I had to change the world by doing it. Given my prema, "ture birth at 26 weeks, I've always been scrawny. No bother in sports, even now, so all that energy has to go somewhere I suppose. And that must be why I engage in writing. I don't think I could ever bear to label myself a writer outright. Pigeonholes, remember?"

My inner Kegan yawned. "It's a double-edged sword. You don't want to be some poster child for Jerry's Kids, your face plastered on some gumball machine."

I nodded. Alone in my room, I nodded. Strange boy. "Right. And people always tell me, 'Well, you're quite the inspiration, eh son?'"

Uh-huh. Helen Keller, right here. Red-eyed and mustached.

If I wanted to be the voice of a generation, I'd change my name to Kanye.

Hellfire and damnation, marijuana's the only sane reasoning I can muster, trying to live this crazy-ass American dream. Cannabis contains chemicals that only affect us mentally. That is, we only think something is more than it is.

There's a false sense of surreality and depersonalization that is activated within the brain under the influence of THC. That deeper level is the answer to my friend's other question, "How do you write?" I am able to deconstruct ideas more easier and reformat them with better arguments and word choice. I have done a bit of personal study over the years, and am simply floored at how successful cannabis intake has been for me medically as well as a daily supplement. Just like a vitamin once you develop a tolerance to the chemical - the other effects wear off or lessen, and the good ones can just help you out.

People judge. And that's not paranoia talking.

"But, Mr. Congressman, or Senator Whomever, how is cannabis any different than coffee or nicotine? It's not physically addicting, because as I've stated for this committee before, it's all in your head, man!" Biting sarcasm and all.

These little clips will pop into my head from what I've read on pot, and I'm able to back it up with experience of many kinds. So, I like to keep it on my mind because I'm good at it, good at using it - cue laugh track, that's a Freudian slip. What I mean is that being good with something, gives me confidence, and that's a good thing for a guy whom I could say with wry deprecation doesn't have two legs to stand on, as it were.

So I write because it burns energy and I can only write when I can open up. And didn't Leary tell us to turn on, tune in, drop out? Marijuana is no acid trip, I'm sure. But it allows for personal exploration without the drowse of booze or the gnawing drive of to much caffeine or nicotine.

I always thought it was so cool, the level of depth that reading allows you to pull from the pages of a good book. Poe did laudanum and booze, Hemingway drank, Lewis Carroll did something...must have worked, Wonderland was trippy even when it was Disneyfied.

So cannabis is my caffeine, as it were, and I view it as a bit safer than caffeine, or anything else. This is coming from a guy who likes smoking, mind you. But I'm referring to something more gentlemanly than a Kool or a Newport.

Pipe smoking; such an 'intellectual'-looking hobby, and I think it's such a quaint, old-fashioned way to remember the past, and exploration by doing builds imagination. But even with my fondness for fine pipes, or coffee, marijuana is such a quick and easy Folgers of its own. And that's what something should definitely be to enjoy doing it, is easy.

Oh, look it that. Story's done. Not so hard at all once you find something to keep your quill on the parchment. And you even learned a little lesson about life -that taking it easy allows you to live it.

"Ain't that cute?" chirps my inner child, munching on another cookie. "God bless us, everyone."

I think he may be overweight. I always feel exhausted arguing with him. It's like demon possession, only without all the brimstone.

Looking to start a new George Jones collection - help appreciated.

I'm in the midst of trying to catalog Jones' discography with the help of Praguefrank's site, as well as the commercial albums put out by Bear Family and the albums compiled by the group over to Visit Me In Music City. I intend to do this in waves, focusing on the following:

• The music track chronology from 1954 to 2010ish - pretty much covered, see below.

• The music video output from 1985 to today.

• The live concert audio from the earliest date to today.

• The audio duets, such as tracks where George was only featured once (not his personal album duets).

• The live television/film/taped performances from the earliest date to today.

It will most likely not be as in-depth textually as Harlan Taylor's excellent collections of Jones' early work, but it will be as complete as I can make it.

What I am requesting is a clean copy of EPIC 9-50922; the B-side, "Garage Sale Today."

In addition, I would appreciate if anyone took the time to download the collection of audio duets from Harlan Taylor's "Possum Week" as well as George's radio appearances for Country Style U.S.A which was also featured during that time. My hard drive failed and I lost all of that music.

More to come as I get the time. Stay tuned!