what it means to be an artist
I really do miss writing. Aristotle said of drama that it's an imitation of life where the characters are exaggerations of real people. I miss taking scenarios from my life, or fantasies from my daydreams, and manipulating them like clay into grotesque caricatures of reality.
Looks like we owe the gubmint a mighty sum of money thanks to student loans that have financed my grad school. Since i took this year off, the bills returned in the mail and we end the month with little to our name. Enrolling fulltime in the summer will put me back into deferment, which will be a welcome blessing. Fall semester will be my capstone project -- probably a collection of short stories -- then the bills will come back in the spring.
And for what? So that i have a couple of letters behind my name? So that i can brag that i have a masters? So that i can walk into the classroom with a toolbag of new and exciting and fresh writing assignments and exercises? A pay raise? Maybe. Budget crises in our school system might forestall that, but at the end of the day i think it will be worth it. I want to accomplish this.
A quick look at my C.V. will reveal unfinished project upon unfinished project. Take a walk through my man-cave. It's become our "shit room." You know, the room where all the shit goes. Drums. Stacks of financial paperwork to be filed. Envelopes of developed film. Books. Books. Books. Outgrown baby clothes. A desk overflowing with magazines and newspapers saved for future reading. Unfinished paintings. Unfinished poems. Unfinished.
But i've written some songs. It's the advantage to being a redneck white trash hillbilly. My wife informed me that her father referred to our yard as "redneck" because of the stacks of old wood, the pile of dried-out bamboo that i cut down, the metal slats that an old man gave me to build a tool shed. What he doesn't understand is that the metal slats will be delivered to the dump when i get to it, but until then i've used one of them for a snow sled for me and Gracie. That was fun. The bamboo will be used as anchors for my garden. And the wood will be burned. In fact, i've begun the process and that's where i do my writing.
drawing circles
circles of blue
i need paper
do it this way
i am breaking
i am breaking
i am leaning
down to the ground
down to the ground
drawing circles
overlapping
tiny fingers
broken crayons
i am breaking
i am breaking
i am leaning
down to the ground
down to the ground
There. Pure fucking genius. Next song. Next song.
watch your castle fall down tonight
why you wanna cry about that
i will help you rebuild
why you wanna cry about that
i'll be watchin over you
tell you whatchoo wanna do
There. Suck it.
Looks like we owe the gubmint a mighty sum of money thanks to student loans that have financed my grad school. Since i took this year off, the bills returned in the mail and we end the month with little to our name. Enrolling fulltime in the summer will put me back into deferment, which will be a welcome blessing. Fall semester will be my capstone project -- probably a collection of short stories -- then the bills will come back in the spring.
And for what? So that i have a couple of letters behind my name? So that i can brag that i have a masters? So that i can walk into the classroom with a toolbag of new and exciting and fresh writing assignments and exercises? A pay raise? Maybe. Budget crises in our school system might forestall that, but at the end of the day i think it will be worth it. I want to accomplish this.
A quick look at my C.V. will reveal unfinished project upon unfinished project. Take a walk through my man-cave. It's become our "shit room." You know, the room where all the shit goes. Drums. Stacks of financial paperwork to be filed. Envelopes of developed film. Books. Books. Books. Outgrown baby clothes. A desk overflowing with magazines and newspapers saved for future reading. Unfinished paintings. Unfinished poems. Unfinished.
But i've written some songs. It's the advantage to being a redneck white trash hillbilly. My wife informed me that her father referred to our yard as "redneck" because of the stacks of old wood, the pile of dried-out bamboo that i cut down, the metal slats that an old man gave me to build a tool shed. What he doesn't understand is that the metal slats will be delivered to the dump when i get to it, but until then i've used one of them for a snow sled for me and Gracie. That was fun. The bamboo will be used as anchors for my garden. And the wood will be burned. In fact, i've begun the process and that's where i do my writing.
drawing circles
circles of blue
i need paper
do it this way
i am breaking
i am breaking
i am leaning
down to the ground
down to the ground
drawing circles
overlapping
tiny fingers
broken crayons
i am breaking
i am breaking
i am leaning
down to the ground
down to the ground
There. Pure fucking genius. Next song. Next song.
watch your castle fall down tonight
why you wanna cry about that
i will help you rebuild
why you wanna cry about that
i'll be watchin over you
tell you whatchoo wanna do
There. Suck it.