The clocks ticks past 10 and my head kicks into gear, welcoming the night and its (in)finite possibility. No similar magic happens when the clock pushes past 8. No, it's too early, too convenient, too sensible. It's only when it's really time to start to settle and slow down and pull all the threads of thought into a neat, convenient bundle for unpacking on the morrow that my head screws me over like this, fighting time in an effort to get as much done in a five minute space as possible.
Tonight's been spent at my desk, soft lamp light and helpful laptop my company. Once again, it's been spent in a world that's not my own but so far belongs to no one else. I've been working on some scenes, a process that looks a lot like this...
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'Process' is probably the wrong word there. That'd suggest some reasoning behind it all, as opposed to the jumping-from-one-to-the-next game I find myself playing, barely finishing on one thought/song before moving onto the next.
First, Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros. There's bands you discover and then there's bands you return to. The returning ones really show their worthiness in a library. They're around for the long haul. I've recently found myself in blissful awe of their frontman, Alexander, and delving into his solo project has brought me back to the team effort. What's not to love about songs that broach topics that have been done to death with a life and whimsy that brings such joy? '40 Day Dream' in particular has put itself on repeat in my head. You can almost hear the smile in his voice when he kicks in at the beginning.
The words. When writing, I find myself constantly pulling up a new tab and typing in 'define x'. A word will come that I want to use, but then I read the sentence it's in back to myself and realise my use of the word doesn't match everyone else's use of it. Words that to me fit absolutely intuitively, words that bring out the colour (or lack of) and the tone of the moment I'm working at without further deliberation, aren't necessarily going to bring the same connotations to the mind of someone else. That haunts me to no avail, and I figure Google's a good place for general popular opinion, so tab after tab, my use of these is refined and whittled away at until, holding my breath, I move on to sentence two (and a whole new string of tabs to follow).
Jam. It's surprising how hard it is to think up multiple flavours on demand. Strawberry, raspberry, blackberry, blueberry, yes... Apricot, even... but where's the exotic flavour? I'm sure there's an abundance of smushed fruit in jars and I'm really in need of the names of some. Google's failing me this time around, and even Wikipedia isn't in too much of a hurry to serve at my beck and call. There's some things you've just got to do the old fashioned way, so I guess I'm off to Aisle 4 for some reconnaissance.
Oh, Lykke. You haven't failed me yet.
I cheated when the clock hit 10. I broke the chronological flow and cracked open the words in my head, letting them form with the aid of Raiders. Such cheek and such a lovely/hateful joy in both that created moment and that bridge - it's a rare moment to find such perfect integration.
And now, with 10.34 looming, I'm off to try and quiet the cacophony, to try and bottle and preserve the images and music and melodies and moments colliding and clamouring for attention. (Bottling. Preserving. Potentially a new jam recipe on the horizon after all.)
