You’re an artist; and YOU are an artist and you too are an artist…
I’m feeling like I’m in touch with Oprah here, but you are an artist.
Once I wrote a piece called the 8 Stages of Poetic Ego [scroll down for that], designed to help people see that they can be poets without passing through all the literary politics of getting published in a poetry journal. We can all be poets, even bad poets if need be.
And rappers are poets and even Celine Dion. And slam poets.
But it’s bigger than that. We can all be artists. And that’s a good thing.
And here’s a few minutes to reinforce that.
Bring your own CHAIR! 🙂
The Eight Stages of Poetic Ego
All begin with “Have the strength to . . . ”
1. Write a poem.
2. Love it as you would love your child.
3. Send it to someone who may publish it.
4. Admit to yourself that you are a writer [not merely that you “write stuff”].
5. Show/share your creation to friends and other loved ones.
6. Tell friends with confidence that you are a writer.
7. Read your poetry to others.
– This is the order of the stages of poetic ego that I went through. Sort of. I skipped #3, but that’s where it would fit.
– Another’s order may differ slightly.
– Relapses to earlier stages is to be expected.
– #1-4 are almost strictly personal and #5-7 are more public, #8 is undefinable.
– Please enjoy, modify to your situation [if required] and pass it on.
There was once a show called Revolution. And another called Scorpion.
Each had a great premise: a world after electricity, and what happens when you have a bunch of geniuses trying to work together on cool projects.
Each failed miserably [as art] almost immediately.
Why? Nothing new here. Network TV isn’t about high quality art. Sometimes that happens inadvertently, but usually it just has to be interesting enough to keep people watching the commercials.
Besides, people who appreciate real art may not be so enthused with all the car, fast food, sweatshop clothes and other materialism-obsessed capitalist elements.
So if you’re wondering why network TV isn’t as good as The Wire, Orange is the New Black, or other shows on HBO or Netflix, it’s because there isn’t this massive distraction of keeping people attentive for the commercials.
In the liminal state
Between yesterday’s deluge of logistics and over-stimulation
And tomorrow’s hopefully more meditative study
Of deep river shore line,
I lie in bed
Between clay ground and vapour clouds.
I can’t feel fully grounded
I keep floating up,
Like bed spins but more trippy.
Like the mortal coil extending
But not to the degree where I’d lose touch of the ground completely,
Which is critical for staying conscious of two states that rarely blur this much.
And the states of my being
Compete for supremacy,
But I resist and carry them both
In my liminality
In my knowing
In my wishing
In my seeking and sensing for truths or just facts or just moments.
Because my bed-sized universe
Is both infinite and conveniently knowable within my capacity,
And I secretly want to stay here
Like John and Yoko in their bed-in
But mine will be all mine
With people drifting in and out
As I zoom in on their mortal coils and drag them close
Closer than they usually are
Closer than I usually see them
And wish them here,
Out of time itself.