(no subject)
Wes found me a piano on Craigslist this fall, bribed four of his friends to help him (with burritos), hauled it up a narrow flight of stairs and positioned it in the tiny spare room in my apartment. The room was made for that piano - the acoustics are perfect and there's a small, West-facing window through which I can look out at the treetops and feel inspired. Lately, I've been bursting with songs of my own. Chord progressions sail out through my fingers so quickly that I'm not sure if I'm actually composing them or regurgitating somebody else's work. Lyrics have been coming too. I've always had trouble with lyrics. I get too self-conscious, put too many restrictions on myself, am too desperate for the perfect, un-forced rhyme. But I've realized that some of my favorite songs are wonderfully imperfect, pieces of art not because of their flawless poetry but because of their honesty. Fiona Apple, Bob Dylan, Katie Herzig, the Fruit Bats, Grandaddy, the Beatles, the Good Life. None are perfect poets. Is anyone a perfect poet? Might it be more lovely to be an imperfect poet?
When I stopped calling my own work stupid, it opened so many doors. I'm not as talented as some people, and I'm more talented than others, but what matters more than talent is conveying the truth. My own version of truth, in my own words, in my own way.
So what if I compare my love to a sweater that he discarded when he found something better? That's the whole point of this song, you know - something sweet turned rotten, a boy who is forgiven and now forgotten.
When I stopped calling my own work stupid, it opened so many doors. I'm not as talented as some people, and I'm more talented than others, but what matters more than talent is conveying the truth. My own version of truth, in my own words, in my own way.
So what if I compare my love to a sweater that he discarded when he found something better? That's the whole point of this song, you know - something sweet turned rotten, a boy who is forgiven and now forgotten.