Sunday, March 27, 2011

I said I was going to start doing this more often. 
Sometimes it's hard to write here, knowing one of the imaginary readers could be the person I'm talking about. Everything I ever have to say is usually based on people- interactions with people- and I don't like to hurt feelings. Hence my hesitation to do this more often. Freewriting, I guess they'd call it. The main thing on my mind is this project I had been working on until recently. It's like my baby has been ripped from my arms. I'm at peace with it now, but the urge to scream lingers. Less cryptic, I was making a movie and am now not. C'est la vie. Meanwhile, I feel stuck in that place where ever artists are just before they become. Langston and Malcolm worked as servers on a train. Sometimes I can't tell if this is my Nation of Islam or train. I notice I didn't type hajj. Regardless, Malcolm wouldn't be Malcolm without the NOI. Nor without the conk, the white girl, or the record. That's the kicker: it takes [insert sweet & sour speech]. MLK wouldn't have been MLK in 1905- just another pool sharking cat daddy preacher. Jokes. Less cryptic, I would have never met challenge had the challenge not first come to me. Is there any way to describe my anguish aside from arrogant asshole metaphor? Without a Lex Luthor, the world would just have to suffer another Clark Kent. I'm starting to wonder if I've ever done anything I didn't have to. I can feel a ramble coming on, so I'll wrap this up. Inner Supermen, you don't have to wait until Doomsday shows up to pull out your cape. Action trumps reaction.  
Why did Benihana laugh? Because he realized he was already that which he was trying to become.