Two notes and one of my atrocious entry/poems. Patent pending.
Everything these days is gay or straight, straight or gay. I don't see it, to be honest, and it's starting to get kind of ridiculous, I think.
Also. On another, unrelated wavelength ...
I know this for certain: You can't be an artist if there's nothing about the world that you're bent on changing. If everything is hunky-dory and life is just the way you want it all across the board, you've probably got nothing interesting to say. I'm sure you're happy and at peace and all that jazz, but you're no artist. That's why Buddha wasn't a playwright.
So when I got my letter from Juilliard, and things immediately and miraculously fit themselves into place, I worried a bit about losing my desperation. My hunger. Whereas I'm proud of my accomplishments and I acknowledge my hard work, and whereas I want things to come easy for me ... at the same time, I don't. I want, at least once in my life, to feel the pangs of hunger. To need an audition. To really worry about rent. Once. I know I know, so says the priviledged boy entrenched in the upper middle class, right? How very "bohemian" of me. But I just think that desperation colors art with urgency, in a way. When you need to create something for a grade or a boss, what results is often diluted and packaged. But when you need to create something in order to feed yourself, you're sharp and sweaty and focused and you really fucking create. I know it's silly to concern yourself with things working out too well, but ... screw you guys, I'm a generally silly individual. Anyway, this is a poem that leapt off that concern.
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When I dream, I see a man with arms outstretched
Standing on the wing of an airplane
10,000 feet above the Atlantic
And looking down.
I see a precious, little pigtailed girl
Balancing herself on the ledge of the Golden Gate Bridge
Giggling and diving into the fog below.
I see stewardesses locked in airplane bathrooms, crying
Getting up minutes later, tidying up
And serving coffee.
I see clowns taking off their makeup.
Artists are supposed to function off of desperation.
When things go well, like they have been going for me as of late,
When one is satisfied with the state of things,
What is there to paint, write or sing about?
That was my concern, at least,
A few days after receiving a letter that fulfilled
The first fourth of my fantasies.
But alas, my dreams still haunt me.
And this is a disease that doctors can't touch,
One that cripples the pseudo-science of Psychology.
I am the cocaine in a rich young girl's fingernail,
The scotch in a poor old man's cup.
Worry not, faithful readership.
I am a balloon escaped and floating upwards toward death,
I am a weeping violin.
In my dreams, I am Regret,
I am the visiting room of an old folk's home
And an empty hospital bed, made and waiting patiently.
And when I wake,
I find no respite.
This world is so sad sometimes, people, think about it:
It makes one's eyes bleed water profusely -
And this world is so beautiful sometimes,
It chokes me.
Also. On another, unrelated wavelength ...
I know this for certain: You can't be an artist if there's nothing about the world that you're bent on changing. If everything is hunky-dory and life is just the way you want it all across the board, you've probably got nothing interesting to say. I'm sure you're happy and at peace and all that jazz, but you're no artist. That's why Buddha wasn't a playwright.
So when I got my letter from Juilliard, and things immediately and miraculously fit themselves into place, I worried a bit about losing my desperation. My hunger. Whereas I'm proud of my accomplishments and I acknowledge my hard work, and whereas I want things to come easy for me ... at the same time, I don't. I want, at least once in my life, to feel the pangs of hunger. To need an audition. To really worry about rent. Once. I know I know, so says the priviledged boy entrenched in the upper middle class, right? How very "bohemian" of me. But I just think that desperation colors art with urgency, in a way. When you need to create something for a grade or a boss, what results is often diluted and packaged. But when you need to create something in order to feed yourself, you're sharp and sweaty and focused and you really fucking create. I know it's silly to concern yourself with things working out too well, but ... screw you guys, I'm a generally silly individual. Anyway, this is a poem that leapt off that concern.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
When I dream, I see a man with arms outstretched
Standing on the wing of an airplane
10,000 feet above the Atlantic
And looking down.
I see a precious, little pigtailed girl
Balancing herself on the ledge of the Golden Gate Bridge
Giggling and diving into the fog below.
I see stewardesses locked in airplane bathrooms, crying
Getting up minutes later, tidying up
And serving coffee.
I see clowns taking off their makeup.
Artists are supposed to function off of desperation.
When things go well, like they have been going for me as of late,
When one is satisfied with the state of things,
What is there to paint, write or sing about?
That was my concern, at least,
A few days after receiving a letter that fulfilled
The first fourth of my fantasies.
But alas, my dreams still haunt me.
And this is a disease that doctors can't touch,
One that cripples the pseudo-science of Psychology.
I am the cocaine in a rich young girl's fingernail,
The scotch in a poor old man's cup.
Worry not, faithful readership.
I am a balloon escaped and floating upwards toward death,
I am a weeping violin.
In my dreams, I am Regret,
I am the visiting room of an old folk's home
And an empty hospital bed, made and waiting patiently.
And when I wake,
I find no respite.
This world is so sad sometimes, people, think about it:
It makes one's eyes bleed water profusely -
And this world is so beautiful sometimes,
It chokes me.