Listen to an album all the way through, something you pleasurably stumbled upon. Itch to create. Think of what you want, who you want, think of nothingness, think of bursting. Remember your guitar calling downstairs for your fingers. Ignore the dead-weight tension of your parents’ irritation with your music, your (un)sound creation…they used to like it, what happened? Fuck it, opinion doesn’t matter. Play, because you know it is life. Without music, you are a shell. Without music, you are not quite dead, you are uglier than death, you are a ragged receipt bookmarking the death of your story. As a brash and kind woman once told you – “Play! Love! Laugh! Live!” As a sparkly-eyed older sister once told you, “Embrace your power.” As a patient and certainly divine woman once told you – “It’s okay to just be grumpy sometimes.” As someone with love once told you, “That’s what alcohol is for!” As someone with love once told you, “You have a strong will.”
Remember your teachers. Remember how Miranda July responds to feeling lonely and unwanted. (“You know the answer to that. I create.”) Remember the grizzly man in the café who admonished you and your colored pencils. (“Put down your weapon.”) Remember your soft words to yourself, written on a sticky note. (“Create wisely.”) Remember the lusty curves of your guitar, remember the silhouette at the door and the commands of the glass eye, remember NOW your physical body existing in this strange spongy wooden world. Remember tears in the eyes of the toughest bitch you’ve ever known. (“SAY SOMETHIN!”) Give yourself permission to dismantle the tripod. Give yourself the gift of sound creation.