September 5, 2014 by musehick
Being creative isn’t always just about the act of creation itself, sometimes it is about building up that head of steam beforehand. Sure, I can write wherever I plant my ass-cheeks, but fuck, and I have said this enough here for it to have probably annoyed those who read my blatherings … Peace and quiet can’t be that hard to come by.
Leave me and my cooking and my washing, and my belongings alone. If my rice boils dry, fuck it, that’s my stupid fault and I’ll deal with it. Constant unasked for help is a hindrance, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
I am ghettoised here. I barely listen to my music without headphones while my flat mate plays hers freely. This isn’t my home anymore. This is not a ace to be creative in. Why? Just having a clueless and careless person to live with does it. I have to chew around the rot in the apple, and while I still write and create a lot, I know I could do more if I wasn’t having to fight so much.
My mum won’t confide I me because of our friendly helpful eavesdropper offering unwanted advice. I don’t need to live horror stories to write them. Sharing houses with people is, I swear it, fucking unnatural. Even when you are married it is hard thing … Without that, what glue binds you? For me nothing really. I like being solitary. I am not unsocial … Bits when I want my downtime to work … Go away. Probably why I am divorced and no one visits, but still. Breathing room is important.
Tomorrow I want to provide some links for work projects and maybe some book covers; some visual spice for the text.