Come and Get It

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Goede Middag, WordPress.

For the first time in a long time, I’m not rebelling against the Dutch language. Today was my first day in the new class. Slower, more basics (which I need), and only 5 of us in the class so loads of personal attention. The instructor is a big believer in mind/body connection, so as we worked on the verb ‘lopen’ (to walk), he had us all get up and walk while we said ‘Ik loop naar de deur’ (I walk to the door). Simple repetition over and over with gentle pronunciation correction and loads of hoorays for going just that bit further with a word or thought or sentence. Everything I needed and wanted! I also had a load of confusion cleared up with a few questions; found out I’ve been hearing a lot of ‘Rotterdam slang’ as my instructor called it: improper verb use. With this new class I won’t fall into any slang or poor pronunciation.

Ask and ye shall receive. I wanted to know how far I could go with swimming, and this morning I found out. 27 minutes into my swim and I got the mother of all leg cramps. Happened in deep water, too. I cried out loud it hurt so much. Two other swimmers grabbed me by the arms and pulled me out; the attendant at the pool came over and helped me stretch my leg out and then assisted me to the whirlpool. Man! I was SO impressed. So fucking impressed by the reaction of EVERYONE in that pool. No one knew me from Eve, but everyone reacted even if they weren’t close to me. It was an example of social cohesiveness I’ve rarely seen or experienced before. And I was damn grateful, because without their help I would have gone under. Lesson learned: stick to two days of swimming a week. Three is too much. For right now.

I haven’t tackled SQUAT on my list of things to do. Part of that is a missed phone call from Addiction Central. I called back but the person who called me wasn’t there and yadda yadda. You know how it goes. So I’m carrying my mobile around everywhere – even the toilet – so I don’t miss the next phone call and I do so hate my mobile. The only thing I enjoy about it is playing a few games every day. Other than that, it’s a pain in my ass. The ring isn’t loud enough for me to always hear, and I’m not exactly trained in hearing it anyway – I get so few phone calls. I hate getting phone calls when I’m not at home…always seems a question of can I make it here or there on this day or that. Don’t ask me about frigging DAYS when I ain’t near my computer to look at a calendar. My LIFE is laid out on the computer, complete with reminders of when to take my medicine or make phone calls or whatever. And my phone number? You think I call myself a lot? I don’t have either one memorized. But I digress: my list of tasks remains untouched. I am uninspired to do any of it, tho I gotta move on some items soon ’cause they’re time sensitive. Ugh. Do it now or lose the window of opportunity. Can’t I just knock the whole damn wall down?

Low spirits around anything I create right now. Fuck. I’m pissed off because I KNOW that if I modified a few things I’d get better rates of response. *sigh* But I don’t WANT to modify. I know my work, and it’s stronger as is. If I say ‘fuck’ or ‘cunt’ once in a goddamn story, it’s because it’s VERY specific. Same with music: if I cut a bass a certain way, it’s for a fucking reason. Yes, I can do things your way but it’s a pansy-assed watered down version of what I can do. Doesn’t anyone other than me see the veracity of keeping an edge, of using harder language when needed or deeper bass for a goddamn club song? Not at the publishing level they don’t. Fuck. Cut the bass, wimp out the song. Cut the language, wimp out the entire scene and impact of the fucking story. Muddle it down so it’s palatable to the mindless fucking masses who can’t hear and can’t think. ARRRRGH!

What I need is a fucking agent or someone who could step in and take this out of my hands. ‘Cause it’s irritating the FUCK out of me. Fine; put in ‘bitch’ rather than ‘cunt’. Cut the fucking bass in the mastering process. MY copies will remain intact. That’s all I’m really concerned about: my copies. That and payment. Which is why I need to modify my shit in the first place, to get payment…oh, fuck it. Until I can disconnect enough from my art to edit it down to kindergarten level, I guess some things may remain just for me. Another irritation. To feel I’m sitting on some really decent work and unable to get it out the way I want to. Well, I did read years ago in an industry ‘zine that record labels/artists had to spend half a million dollars (that’s $500,000 – write out all the zeroes) to make a million. That’s the break point – $500,000. Less than that and you’ll lose money. Fucking pleasant idea, isn’t it? Just kind of makes every independent artist feel like a fuck-wit. Unless there’s another Andy Warhol out there, in which case please contact me right away because I’ve got some shit that’ll blow your mind.

Whew. Doubt I’ll get a response, but you never know. Won’t happen if I don’t put it out there.

And ain’t THAT the truth: it won’t happen unless I put it out there. Well, I’m puttin’ it out there. Come and get it.

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