Hello Helter Skelter

A long, long time ago...back when I tried to be a creative person, I used to get some many ideas that I didn't know what to do with myself. I'd write twenty page stories back-to-back (concluded only because I was eager to start on the next project). Ah, but mine is a lazy muse it would seem. Rather than come by at a regular interval with her spores of inspiration, my muse comes by once or twice a year and dumps her whole bag of ideas onto my doorstep. She then rings the doorbell and runs away before I can open the door.

"Dear Jason, please take care of these ideas...they're all you're getting for awhile."

The last time I wrote anything (for myself) that was any good was over a year ago. Two summers ago, actually. My muse has been away for a long time. It's not all her fault, though. I was partly to blame. She came by once and I was drunk-on both alcohol and my own hubris-and decided to leave without dropping anything off. Then there's been the whole college thing...I've been sending her packages back (unopened) like those crappy CD's you get from ColombiaHouse. School's important to me, so much so that I'm wallowing in poverty rather than do the sensible thing (which would be to go part time and work full time). I didn't want my muse stopping by with soemthing that could distract me from studying (which, I know full well she often does).

Anyway, I let me guard down, and she crept into my English lit class this week. Now I knew it was her as she ran up to me. I tried to pusher her away. I tried to reason...

"But Leah wants me back on the paper....they want me back...I have school..."

It was no use, she got me. Not compeletly, though...but enough to fuck with me. So now I have this small little package, sitting in my lap. What do you think I did? What would you do? I thought "hey, this is really small...how bad could it be?"

I opened it. Inside I found the greatest thing my muse has ever given me. Now, if I tell you what it was...then it'd be your great idea, and not mine. Not that I'm worried, this idea (should it come to fruition) will not make me a single dime. Critics too, will hate it. The reading public will ignore it. People I read, Stephen King and John Grisham will scratch their heads or laugh at the utter failure of it. Laugh that someone would waste the time to try and capture a dream.

I'm not going to tell you the plot, because, Godwilling there won't be one. Okay, that's horseshit, of course there's a plot. But it's so minor to the whole thing that it's silly to think of my idea in terms of plot. Really, what I want to do is the exact opposite of that journalistic prison I almost let the people I love trap me into. Beacuse really, I was on the paper because my girlfriend and my parents wanted me to. They know, just as well as I do, that journalism is the only hope I have for making money doing what I love (and the only thing I'm good at).

My youth is turning into maturity. I realize for the first time, that I'm going to die. Suddenly, doing what will make everyone happy isn't so important. Writing a book, getting published isn't important. I don't want to die without creating something, something that means more than just words on a page. Something more than forced reviews of artsy fartsy, PAC, alumni-loving crap. I realize now that my past attempts at writing too, have been mostly wrong. Weak, watered down imitations of stuff I'd read. The saftey nets must be cast aside.

This thing I have inside me, that my annoyingly lazy (and unpredictable) muse has chucked my way isn't so much about plot as it is a sensory doodle. Does that make sense? Instead of writing about what someone else has done, I'm going to create art. Not a novel, or short story...art. But not stuffy, art gallery art. Or "Revolution 9" either. Somewhere in between a here and a there. Speaking of The Beatles (and why not? they're great), I'd say that if this thing were a Beatles record, it would be the White Album. The White Album is great because it's way too long, and too indulgent. It's colorful (sonically), while at the same time it's very obtuse and black and white. Paul managed to both, wink acknowledgement to the past ("Honey Pie") while at the same time he gave birth to heavy metal ("Helter Skelter").

So let me finish here. I'm going to the library, to bury myself, all alone amongst the stacks. I'm not taking my laptop...I don't need it. I'm taking a spiral notebook, an ink pen, and that box my muse gave me. I have some writing to do.