The Whispering

My life has been insanely busy as of late. Among this busy-ness has been a tremendous amount of creative output, just beginning, for my music and the album recording. Somewhat paradoxically, a big part of this output has entailed a lot of input, namely technical manuals learning how to use the recording gear.

As a result, apart from some light blogging on this site, my writing has come to a standstill. I haven’t had time or energy or inspiration to write lately. But today, for the first time in a long time, I felt the call to begin writing again.

I may not act upon this call, at least not right away. I have no idea what I’d write about. Perhaps it’s time for a larger writing project again. I’m not sure I have the stomach for more political rants and analysis on the dangers of the current intellectual property culture. Perhaps something more metaphysical would be to my taste. But every time I conceive of such a project (a good friend and I have sort of danced around the idea of collaborating on such a project for a long time now), it occurs to me that I can’t see why anyone would want to read what I have to say on such subjects. Pretty ironic, that I can go effortlessly into rant mode when it comes to Intellectual Property, or Linux, or the Bushites. As if anyone really wants to hear about this…

Another part of me knows that writing, though I enjoy it (to an extent) and I feel I have some skill, requires enough time and attention that it presently can be no more than a hobby for me. My attention is commanded by other things, things that I am not willing to sacrifice for writing. I’ve waited too long to record my own music. Now that the process is finally, after so many years, underway, it needs as much attention as I can give it.

Regardless, though, I heard the call of the scribe today. Perhaps I need to listen closer, and decipher the whisperings floating through the mists, and distinguish them from the rhythmic white noise lapping at the shore all around me. The whispering, the articulate sighs that pass over lips like a spent lover drifting off to sleep, what do they say?

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