Scribbling

I oftentimes find myself someplace, it doesn’t really matter where, seized by the urge to scribble down some note or other. Last night, a piece from a napkin entitled: Buzz Bar, Since 2003.

“For some reason
the primal need to
lay words down on
a blank field is
especially strong and
who am I to resist
a primal urge, huh?
What is this thing
we call need? Really?
I have to… I have to,
what? I have to survive
and reproduce. Those are
the only rules, technically,
but what are the repercuss-
ions of the biological
imperatives? Art is the
abstraction of reproduction.
It is the essence of the
“I have created something,”
and this, if for no other reason,
is the importance of art.
The primal need to create
something other. Reproduction.
What do we make then of
the mass produced? That for
which production in a
quantity is the only rule?
Does quality always suffer
from quantity? (and vice versa)
Is it merely the result of
having so much that
we actually wind up
regressing? Is it not
the sheer possibility
of vacancy that truly
troubles us? The sheer
possibility of the very
real anything that
terrifies us? Do we
not, rather, feel far
more comfortable
in a world in which we
understand everything?
And to that end, do
we avoid the incomp-
rehensible nature
of reality?”

A little piece I call: Scribbled on My First Setlist, Busan, January 2009

“What good
are all those
pills if they
don’t actually
help? It’s all
personal.”

And finally, an ambiguous piece I call: On the Back of a Grocery List

“It seems as
though there
is an absolutely
necessary number
of things that
Must, Must, Must
occur to me on
any given day, and I
am either suffering
them or controlling
them. Today I woke
up late and didn’t get much
done this morning. I paid for it
later.”

What does it all mean? And why do I HAVE to do it, knowing I don’t HAVE to do it?