How do you ruin perfect weather?

I've been doing a fair amount of writing lately and I feel like there's some stuff I want to say about how and why I write, because I'm feeling particularly "deep" this morning. I've kind of gained insight into what scenario I like to write under, and it has a lot to do with the weather. When an idea comes to me, it just feels like its wrapped into this day of perfect weather thats either warm or too warm, and it becomes my job to translate that enjoyable weather and ruin it or turn it into something that matters. Like no matter how perfect things can be outside, a life can still be suffering or ruined or intensely contemplative. I'm probably not being all that eloquent or well mitered on the account that I'm not feeling all that well, and if what I'm saying seems too simplistic its not meant to be, its just meant to present what I view as an open canvas.

I used to be meticulous when I wrote, demanding perfection from every sentence and stupid idea I had, but lately I've come to be much more malleable when I write, oftentimes throwing weird stuff and strange tangents into my prose just to see if they work when I reread it. God, I used to hate editing my writing so much, thinking that if I read something shitty I wasn't going to have the wherewithal to pull it out of the dumpster, but thats changed lately too. I've definitely become more accepting of the frailty in my writing, and a lot of the time that feels like something I'd like to exhaust and overuse in my writing just to see what happens to it. Its something about understanding happens to this particular tenderness when its pushed to exhaustion that compels me. It seems so innocent and weak, but it can be stretched so far.

Oftentimes I find myself wanting to write about children or childish things, and I definitely always want to incorporate something from science fiction or fantasy in my prose. I guess I enjoy magical realism pretty well, so its probably seeing that example that brought it to my mind. I really like the idea of fun, playful backdrops and the idea of child protagonists as well. I think the ideas I enjoy most are the ones where I can imagine myself thinking of it as a child and getting wrapped up in the emotion of it in my youth and just playing in the idea for hours outside on the asphalt or in the yard by myself. Its a totally tranquil feeling, and its something about my childhood which I really, really enjoy thinking about. I had a lot of friends as a kid, but I think even then I liked spending a lot of time alone imagining things, and even though none of them mattered in a grand sense they all seem to have congealed into something that has.

Thats another thing I like in writing, and it goes well with the idea of frailty. Just like trying to pull up these old, fragile and hard to rekindle emotions from my childhood expresses that tenderness, so does a certain diction. I never like to be too much of a positivist with what I say, so I oftentimes use words like "just", "seems", "like" "sort of" etc to eschew a certain weakness in what I'm saying. The use of "too much" in the previous sentence is a pretty good example as well. I don't think I'd want any one thing I said in writing to be held in higher esteem than everything else, for me its more about the cumulative. I like grand concepts hammered out in tiny steps, and I like how inviting simple and uncertain language can be to make it feel as though the reader could change or tweak what was written if they wanted to, even if them actually doing that would drive me absolutely fucking bonkers.

The Dominant Magnetic was dark, and I don't know if I intended it to be. Like I said earlier, the concept started out with a bright and beautiful landscape, but on that I guess I really wanted to explore what was going on underneath. It started out as 3 pages and turned into almost 15 and I've considered posting it here but I'm still ultra-lazily trying to get it published so I think that would be a conflict of interest if the theoretical publisher were to do an internet search of part of the text and have the fucking thing pop up. I've only sent it to one place thus far and it was DECLINED because the person who read it was obviously dense and a dolt and wouldn't know good writing if it walked up and stabbed them in the dick. That statement blankets both genders, use your imagination. So yeah, I don't know how that story became so dark but such is life, and I can't tell whether I never want to write anything like it again or if I'm just not in the mood for it right now. It uses my perferred device of taking a strange or magical item and incorporating it into a normal scenario to explore humanity from a different and puppeted angle, trying to come up with something more unilaterally human in the end. I like the device and I like the piece, but I think looking back I'm just a little disappointed in it's being not as imaginative as I'd have liked and certainly not as playful as I am. The story itself isn't all that cruel, but the tone seems cruel to me, as though it were something I just couldn't find anything to be happy about, but I really like the piece so this gets weird and fragmented and entirely personal and complex and I think delving into it would take too long to express and mean too little in the end.

So I'll end this with an example of what I like. This is Lee Ranaldo's poem from the Ciccone Youth song "Me & Jill, Hendrix Cosby", and I can't describe it in any way other than "awesome".

We had just left shore when everything began to happen at once
the water came in and we started to go down
I looked at jill and she looked back,
thinking it would be alright to go down
but then the railings broke and the motors gave out
the hall emptied out and no-one was left for the band
the amps all wet, speakers burst, soaked
we, up three flight now, tried to meet up with the galley crew
but it seemed everyone had gone
we had a smoke to pass some time
Jill said "I'd love to, right now"
what could I say?
We did while the waters rose, licking our feet
it was fun and funny so we laughed
I loved the way she could laugh, so full bodied
when we hit the sky we were high over the rooves
a field of gnarled antennas coiling upwards
waves and waveforms joining in a nice hot blast
so different from the boat
the cold silver sky opened for us and we passed through
last I saw of Jill she was heading into the coils of the antennae
laughing, so beautiful
saying she hadn't yet had her fill of the boys there
and the electricity
saying she wanted to plug in again and fry a bit
I said: "watch the water love"
she kept laughing and shook her hair
she said "I'd love to, right now, you know"
so we did, and had a smoke too, and her lips parted
there in amongst the coiling snakes of an antenna
she looked right at home
the waves came up and a blinding flash caught me dreaming of her
as she looked all across with wires and spikes watching the blast
everything went orange and all my thoughts dissolved into the cloud
I thought one last: how different from the sea is the boat

I love so much about this piece, but I'll just say that that I really love the first line and the use of "it was fun and funny so we laughed". The entire thing is just so breathable and it feels like it could be blown in any direction by the wind, which is something I'd love to be able to say about something I write eventually. I think about this piece a lot when I write, especially those two lines. They capture a certain tempo I'm really striving for. Thanks.