Jimi Hendrix, 1983... (A Merman I should Turn to Be). I close my eyes and get lost in all of the layers of his guitar, the whipping and swirling about, like some magnificent storm raining upon my ears.
I edit, consider each and every word choice, the syntax, punctuation throughout. Even the white space. Sometimes the white space is as important as the words. The best left unsaid, but just around the corner from it. Implied but not plied. Sort of a reply to the music, sometimes. It all fits a puzzle. It all fits and flows and nicks and knocks.
That got all kind-of Dr. Suessy there for a second. That was kind-of cool. Well, I thought so at any rate. It doesn't really matter.
I should be finishing editing this story or that novel. Or another story. Or a poem. Or doing school work. However, I am not doing any of those things. In my head I am doing all of those things at once, but, here in the material world, that won't do, just simply will not do. No, mind you. Not at all.
Not a bit. Or a smidge. Or a tiddly wink even.
Lost. Completely and Utterly. In nonsense. It is static taking over AM radio, which was once meaningful but now devoid of any relevance. The static carries more significance.
The world outside our happy little bubbles is just static. It was once significant, but now is devoid of any relevance. The rest of the world. Nothing. Right next door but nowhere in sight and out of sight out of mind.
Electric currents through guitar amps produce sonic vibrations from the contact of fingers on guitar strings. The echoes meet my ears and then I thoughtlessly hear like the beat of my heart a natural part of my internalized twining.