There is something special about writing and composing for HitRecord.
Something that you don't get when you are quietly
working your thoughts and words on paper;
something that you don't get when it's just you and just for you.
The open window with it's big red "Rec"ord button.
The feeling that there is a world out there,
ready to receive,
digest and ignore
everything you say.
To rail against the machine.
To be bold.
To be bolstered by your confidants.
To speak and regret.
To be stubborn and insightful.
To be on-the-fly.
To know only that you will write,
you will record, you will be inspired,
and not to know what you will write
or what will inspire you.
To assassinate grammar and spelling
with cold hard disdain for their functionality.
To paganistically worship in moments of rapture,
and the under appreciated.
I'm here with you. We are alive. We are live.
We are pirate radio gone rabid!
So many voices that we become lost.
We become factions, we become groups,
statistics (lies, damned lies and statistics).
So we Pump Up The Volume.
It's Christian Slater "Was it bigger than a babies arm?"
pretending that he's not in Fountain Hills.
We should have said something more.
We should have said no.
We should have done something other than rant and crack jokes.
But this is what we do.
When we don't know yet what else to do.
I have no problem with that.
It is a great thing, this voice, this need.
Speak when you can.
Pass on what you are in viral combinations.
Rant poetry on street corners if you have to.
You have to.
You wouldn't be here if you didn't have to.
How I love you.
How I wish I were you,
were knowing what you've known,
were understanding this new thing,
this human thing that we all get by virtue of being human.
Instantaneous and luminous.
Gather in coffee shops and hide behind laptops.
Rooms full of people in virtual rooms
having virtual conversation virtually all the time.
How I love you.
I work all day, longing for this,
for home, for moments when I can rightly express myself.
There is a wall coming down around us,
not brick by brick, but atom by atom,
dispersing in a white wave of light and energy,
and it is fuel for the fire,
it is grist for the mill.
We are making a fine powder of our beliefs and our desires.
And these moments, these fleeting seconds before transmission
are the staples that get me by.
Potatoes, bread, milk and eggs.
Rice and butter.
I can feel you out there because I am delusional.
I imagine that someone reads though I never write.
I imagine that someone is made whole or broken,
though such a thing is rare.
I hope that I am not a fool,
but such hopes are lost in wandering texts like these.
So instead I hope that this feeling will come again,
that I will write again, whether I am a fool or not.
That I will “Rec”ord again, whether I am confident or afraid,
That in these moments I am close to you,
whoever you are,
that I am close to God,
creating worlds on the fly,
that I am more myself.
I hope at all,
and hope too is a rare thing these days.