Thought of the Morning 36

So many people in big cities, like LA, claim to be writers. To be a writer, I think, a real one, is being your craft. Even when you’re not actually writing because daily life crap mangles your time, you’re experiencing every moment immersed in this sort of romanticized way in your mind; as though it’s being written on a page for “post-humous” interpretation.

Relativity (A Theory, so I Hypothesize)

Back in 1981 in Los Angeles, an artist was booed off stage for his flamboyant mannerisms and funky style. Last night, an entire coliseum of people waved their hands and roared in response to this same artist, whose worldwide fame is now so mind-blowing, that he can quietly announce an impromptu show, any time, anywhere in the world and it will be sold out within the first few hours.

Seeing Prince perform his gleaming carousel of hits (along with original protegee, Sheila E.) at the L.A. Forum in Inglewood was inspiring. I watched his face as he stood, soaking up the unrivaled cacophony of audience screams, and caught a glimpse of genuine appreciation, or so it seemed. Even though, no doubt, he's been performing for screaming fans for many years, to be here, in Los Angeles, and receive the overwhelming swell of love and admiration from tens of thousands of people, I wondered if, every time, he thought, "I can't believe this is for me."

Maybe that's just me injecting a bit of myself into the mix. I can relate to Prince in a way, being a bit different from the rest, a stand-out creative in a buttoned-up world. His lifelong perseverance in doing what he loved to do reminds me to keep writing, no matter what.

I'm just getting my fingers warmed up to jam out some great stuff. ;)

Places

Laundromat:

The inescapable odor of fabric softener, mingled with baked B.O. and mildew greets you at the door. Couples perform the same ritual every week, loading, unloading, folding, softly discussing bills, family business. An old man squints to read the partially rubbed off instructions on one of the machines. He looks up for the attendant, a mental wave for help. She is cleaning the floor. She sighs and sharply shoves his quarters into the machine. The machine switches on and the clothes swirl and foam. On the other side, the rhythm of clicks and soft thunks as the clothes dry soothe the baby in his bouncey seat on the folding table, while his mother's hands smoothe the fabric of his father's old work shirt. Toyless on the grey tiled floors, children shriek, scamper, laugh and play.

Thought of the Morning 3

Sometimes I get down on myself as a writer and think, "Gee, what I wouldn't give to be Perez Hilton right now." Then again, would I really want to be known for drawing penises on people's faces? Hmm...[loooooooonnnnngggggg pause]...Yessss?