Thursday 12/8/22
I have sat here for the last two hours working on about twenty stories and a novel--The Year--in my head. The characters always tell me their stories. Their stories are theirs. But I've figured it out. Everything behind art. How it all happens. May happen. I have all the answers now. I know what to do. It's not like what anyone thinks. One has to go beyond language in order to have the language. I know things past my myself. It's being a part of something else. Something beyond everything we otherwise ordinarily know or might know or are a part of. And then becoming that something else--in a way. Or having it become a part of you.
I create. I listen. I drink my green tea and water. I am just sitting there. And I am doing so much.
Tonight I have been listening to Radiohead at the Hammersmith Ballroom in December 1997. It's some of the most beautiful music I've ever heard. They play everything from OK Computer, which they rarely did. There's also a soundcheck that is phenomenal. The music reminds me of Handel's Messiah in its scope, beauty, and power.
The concert proper--before the encores--ends with "Fake Plastic Trees" from The Bends. The song--and this performance especially--features a line that always moves me to tears when Yorke sings, "But gravity always wins," and his voice goes up and up, because it is art that really always wins.
Anyway. I can feel whatever is inside of me, whatever I am, that something I wrote of above, becoming more powerful. I can actually feel it growing. Again. And always.