Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Why I’m a Zinester:

Or Why it’s Okay I Stopped Pretending to be a Writer

  1. Sometimes when I’m sitting on my porch swing in my back yard with a cold beer in my hand, the breeze flowing across my entire body, my dogs at my side enjoying the lazy afternoon all the same, I think to myself, “How could anyone waste a day like this hunched over a computer screen?”
  2. And sometimes when I’m playing my drums or my guitar and the beauty of music lifts my mind from the prison of daily routine and delivers it into the musical ether where my thoughts and worries melt away and I can know and appreciate what it truly means to be human, I don’t think to myself, because thinking would only bring me back down to a cold reality that I drowning out with the sound of sweet splendor.
  3. And sometimes when I’m working on my zine and listening to Embrace, my creative juices flowing all over the page, filling it with my own words—not in an attempt to sell advertising or to generate page views or asinine comments or to appease an editor, but to express whatever the hell it is I want to say to the world—I think to myself something I read in a book once, “If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”
  4. And pretty much all the time, I don’t like to think of work when I’m not working, won’t let it consume my thoughts and eat away at my soul because I don’t like to worry endlessly about what it takes to pay rent and because, you know, if my time off work isn’t its own reward, what the hell am I working for?
  5. And sometimes life can be stressful and you can either get mad about it and tear your hair out and curse at the dog who doesn’t even know why you would curse at him when he didn’t even fucking do anything this time, or you can call up you friends, tell them to bring over some beer, put some records on the turntable, and then tell dumb stories and laugh into all hours of the evening and smile and not do anything productive—because productivity for productivity’s sake is curse, a slow, tortured march towards death and none of us has much time here on earth to act foolish and laugh about it in spite of ourselves because that’s what foolish people sometimes do... All I’m saying is, what would life be like if we all made an attempt to enjoy it more, not conquer it, not be depressed about it, and not work through the whole thing? What if life could be a lot more livable?