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I used to split my time between writing, music and painting. I would work on a book and then abandon it, start a band, do an album, quit music, then do a gallery show. Eventually I decided to give writing a serious shot.

Isaac Marion

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Isaac Marion
Age: 42
Born: 1981
Born: December 30
Music Journalist
Novelist
Writer
Seattle
Washington
Giving
Serious
Album
Writing
Start
Albums
Show
Eventually
Gallery
Work
Shows
Shot
Split
Would
Used
Shots
Splits
Time
Give
Decided
Quit
Music
Band
Abandon
Book
Painting
Quitting

More quotes by Isaac Marion

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How do I appear unthreatening when her lover's blood is running down my chin?
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It's hard to take your life so seriously when you can see it all at once.
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I would like my life to be a movie so I could cut to a montage.
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You might say that death has relaxed me.
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Sometimes it's a struggle to live in the moment.
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I can feel it... the chance to start over, to live right, to love right, to burn up in a fiery cloud and never again be buried in the mud.
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It was fun, but it's over now. This is how things go.
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But it does make me sad that we've forgotten our names. Out of everything, this seems to me the most tragic. I miss my own and I mourn for everyone else's, because I'd like to love them, but I don't know who they are.
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A month ago there was nothing on Earth I missed, enjoyed, or longed for. I knew I could lose everything and not feel anything, and I rested easy in that knowledge. But I'm growing tired of easy things.
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I want a new past,new memories, a new first handshake with love. I want to start over in every possible way.
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You should always be taking pictures, if not with a camera then with your mind. Memories you capture on purpose are always more vivid than the ones you pick up by accident.
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...thinking all this maximalism would somehow generate happiness?
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I can no longer believe in any voodoo spell or laboratory virus. This is something deeper, darker. This comes from the cosmos, from the stars, or the unknown blackness behind them. The shadows in God's boarded-up basement.
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One mistake, one brief lapse of my new found judgement-that's all it took to unravel everything. What a massive responsibility, being a moral creature.
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I'm watching her talk. Watching her jaw move and collecting her words one by one as they spill from her lips. I don't deserve them. Her warm memories. I'd like to paint them over the bare plaster walls of my soul, but everything I paint seems to peel.
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I feel an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation in my lips, tugging them upward. This is... new.
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The kind of stuff I usually read is a bit more on the literary side, like books that I think are influential in the sense that they're doing pulpy subject matter in a refined way. Like 'The Road' by Cormac McCarthy, I loved that book.
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Writing isn't letters on paper. It's communication. It's memory.
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What's wrong with people? she says, almost too quiet for me to hear. Were they born with parts missing or did it fall out somewhere along the way?
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It's not like I'm such a shiny happy person either, you know? I'm a wreck too, I'm just... still alive.
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