This isn’t a choice

Stress doesn’t make for great artistic endeavors
People say starving artist likes its a good thing
Like hunger and strife makes art
That flame out make it or die passion works
Just enough to make it seem real
Enough that it leaves a blood trail leading to LA and NYC
Enough that doe eyed innocents are fed to the blades of the art world
And occasionally one makes it out and occasionally that work is significant enough to actually last instead of making a profit
But art is rarely popular or profitable in the time frame its born in
But it still needs to be
To be painted
To be sung
To be written
To be performed
And that means blood must be spilled
But it’s always the artists blood
It’s always the balance between an art world that glorifies the new and tattered
As if it did not create the atmosphere which kills art itself
And the desire to make rent in a world not built for dreams
Not even small ones
Like wanting what the next day holds
Like eating regular meals while not depending on family to thicken up the margins
Like having the choice to make art
We are burning our dreams for warmth
And eventually we run out
So we burn our blood
And when we are too full of ashes
We fade
Becoming the grey
Our voices lost
As if we never were

Brief contemplation on the confluence of art and life

It’s hard to keep writing when the song in your heart is silent. When its constant mutters and chatter bleed off into silence so quietly that you jerk awake, lulled by the absence for those brief moments indulging in that quiet that never seems to stay. Until you see that the chatter has gone. And you are left with the quiet.

It’s no secret that I use my pain and bouts of depression to fuel my art. And there is no doubt that it has led to a well fed blood forest.

It’s weird. The quiet was the moments when I would create in. Maybe I need to reassess. And know that this is not quiet. Instead it’s the steady white noise, too busy to stop and think. Too busy to experience and grow. Far too busy. But what must that mean?

And can I get back to that without sacrificing what I’ve gained. I don’t know. I have this need to now commit to trying but that feels like the first step to failure. So instead I’ll commit to a small change. And perhaps that change will lead to another.

Pyrite Kintsugi

Broken is beautiful
Watch me as I put glass to skin
Painting sunsets with my blood
Is this not beautiful
Jagged flower vases filled with roses
Supping on blood as snow melt
Broken is beautiful
Can you not see it in my screams?
Tears patter down and canvas
Raindrops spread watercolor
Watch me dance
Broken doll limbs flail
Shattered and remade
Gold fills the broken
But the vase remembers being whole
Warm without these false spots of cold
Am I not beautiful?

Laying in bed, unable to sleep, alone

I sometimes think, “I’m just this mad thing. Bound up in desires impossible to realize. Trying to get others to see, to accept, impossible beauty, impossible desires, so that at some point I won’t be alone.”

Its weird to think this way, I think. Weird to hope this way. To jump then question the decision. To fall in love, then hope they are in love as well. All of these thoughts bouncing around in my brain and mostly I want a few minutes of silence. Or, if not silence, then to speak with my love. The person I love. About anything, everything.

That last is the most normal.
Which brings us to why do I care what seems normal. It’s simple. Confirmation bias. Artists and open minded types surround ourselves with similar people. So much so that mainstream ideas seem foreign. And because they do, we are less likely to engage in those areas. And as we pull away, we, ourselves, become foreign to people in the mainstream. This leads to a problem. Our audience for our art should be able to reach as many people as possible. Not because as many people as possible enjoying the work is the goal but because reach means that the people who need to read the piece or hear the poem are more likely to do so.

These are the places my mind goes when all I really want is to be with you. To hold you. To learn you. All the things we need to be successful in a relationship. See? Overthinking even in the face of my desire to simply be with the person I love

I’m tired of being

I would very much like it if a paramour would ask me out. Would say you’re interesting, want to be with me? I’m so tired of choosing and after a time falling and thinking that this person wants me as I want them and being wrong each time. I’m tired of putting myself out there and seemingly wanted then dropped like they grasped a adder. I’m tired of falling for the ones I can’t be with. Tired that only the ones that are safely taken have the least bit interest in me. Tired, just tired. I don’t want to have to be the strong one, the chooser, the asker all the time. It is exhausting.

I thought I’d found her. Got to know bits and pieces over 3 months, told her I was interested in more, that I was falling in love and wonder of wonders she said she was too, 6 weeks later she was gone. Off living her life like I was nothing. This isn’t “beating a dead horse”. This is me struggling to understand. What did I do? What didn’t I do? Was it the way I did it? I NEED to know the why’s. I NEED to know the intricacies. I cannot learn, cannot grow without that information. And in the absence of a long talk with her, I have only the pieces I have. So my mind goes over and over and over again each piece. Attempting to glean new information. Consider me posting a way of clearing out a bit of the debris from the process. Maybe it’s not interesting, maybe you don’t want to see me in pain. But it is necessary. It is how I work through things and come out stronger. Leaving things unexamined in the past, only feels ok in the immediate. In effect though, it’s like leaving unstable unexploded ordinance all over your psyche.

I know it’s not interesting to read. It’s not entertainment. I write stories for entertainment. Listen to one or read Pel and Sara. My poetry is art. I hope to strike a resonant chord. I hope to affect my reader. My thoughts are just that, thoughts. Maybe there will be value, maybe not. It’s all process.

I have a more than 2 year back catalog of poetry and stories like Why or Cubicle.
Hopefully those will tide you over while I’m getting a handle on developments in my life. 

Thoughts on The Art

Its real. I am keenly aware that this sounds insane. However, I have seen ghosts. Real spirits. I have dreamwalked and met people who I would later meet in the waking world. I have seen the branching future, and knowing a sequence would lead to ruin, a sequence I could not anticipate that existed outside normal patterns, averted that disaster by making a different choice. And as a test case making the same choice to disastrous results. I have spoken with elemental forces. Made friends with some, allies of others. The enemies I had already.

When I work a spell, I can feel the world shifting and when it is complete, feel it take hold. I can feel the world change. I know this sounds delusional, like madness. The problem is duplication, with science you input something and can test for a reaction. Magic is not science. Magic is art. In the same way that you can play notes in the same sequence that Charlie Parker did but lack the same quality of Charlie.

Magic is a system, just like musical notes are a system but no two mages will work in the exact same way as no two musicians will sound exactly the same. You can get close, same teachers, same styles, same outlook. But there is always differences and those differences make it hard to prove. I don’t feel the need to justify myself, but I am an adult and know to whom and when I can speak without being locked up by the largest secular religion, psychology. I say all of this to make this point, Magic is real. Do not dismiss what you cannot explain. But don’t slavishly follow it either. This world contains more than you can know.