Friday, November 30, 2012

Art you glad I didn't say Banana?

What does it mean to be a musician? An artist? A writer? Anything that you declare to the world that you "are"? Recently I've shared some of my old art of various types with some people whose opinions matter to me and they all expressed two things. One was that I should try to publish my work. Yeah, easy for you to say... and the other was a request for me to help with their own work. Aside from the fact that I'm not your art teacher... (You show me $1100 and maybe I'll teach you how to write a haiku.) Actually, it goes like this:

I ain't yo teacha

Go to someone else, dang fool

Stop messin' around

I also just don't know how to teach something like that. Poetry and lyrics are about emotion, experience, truth, imagination. Things that can't be planned or predicted or taught. One might be inspired or shown how to be open to these things but it's not coming out of nowhere!

The last poem I wrote was magnificent. What was it written about? How I may have mooned my entire neighbourhood a few months back. Yeah. Long story short, I was walking to the store with my buddy and suddenly I feel my pants snag on something on the ground. I fumble around a bit, trying to get it loose and my friend keeps walking, somehow complete unaware of my struggle. I try to play it cool and continue walking when suddenly I realize my pants have just dropped to the ground. Those of you who know me, well, at all, know I am all about the commando. My first instinct? You would think it would be to grab my pants and pull them up, no? No. I jump to the floor, my bum on the nasty sidewalk and whine out, "Help! Don't look at me but oh god, help me!"

As he put it,

i was walking the dog, heard a thump and see her sitting bare-bummed on the ground (lmao)

What a pal. 'An Ode to the Belt' shall forever live in infamy. I only wish I could figure out where I saved it. Then there was my other piece about my first experience of a booty call. Except, innocent little me was totally unaware. You see, what I thought was the name of a goth club was actually a bondage hotel. With bondage stuff. That he wanted to use on me, with me, despite me... however you want to say it.  Needless to say, naw aw, it did not happen.

Thus it is once again proven that art and poetry can be created from anything and everything. I think this connects deeply with one of my favourite terms, authenticity. Being true to yourself, not allowing labels to be placed upon you. Self-definition. Now, this doesn't always work... apparently, if I just claim to be the inventor of Furby doesn't mean they'll pay me royalties and give me tons of money. Besides, there's certainly a portion of shame that comes with this self-proclaimed honour. To be fair, I do stuff cameras in dolls and force them into people's homes. I call them FurbEyes.

This post hasn't really hit a point of inspiration for me, speaking of which. I think I will end here. The moral of the story being... wear a belt?

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