creator..or poseur

Posted on by kylar

so tonight i hung out with a couple friends and we played a little music, some guitar, some bass, whatever. and we had a little discussion (which i’ll go into more about later) that made me start thinking a bit. i’ve written some poetry (mostly bad), some essays (mostly bad), and some songs (all bad), and every time i read a really good poem, i know that i’ll never be able to have the effect on other people that that poem has on me. one of my favorite poems is titled ‘howl’ and it’s by alan ginsberg, the noted beat poet. when i read the first lines, a shiver runs through me, the imagery so perfect, every word exactly right, and when i’m done reading i always feel a little sad because i don’t really have any creative talents. i can pretend to be able to create a little here, or little there, but really i’m only a not-so-competent fake. that started me thinking even more, about what distinguishes an artist from everyone else. is it passion? is it desire? is it some unnameable longing that burns inside, and every time you write or sing or paint or sculpt you’re trying to give a name or a voice to that burning? i don’t know, and even if i did, i wouldn’t be able to find the words to describe it. back to the conversation that i was having earlier. we were listening to one of our favorite pieces of music, a piece that manages to convey so much feeling that you cannot avoid being swept up by it. it was ‘shine on you crazy diamond’ by pink floyd, and when david gilmour picks up a guitar, it becomes a more natural extention of his feeling and artistic talent than my hands or fingers or voice. i could spend hours and days learning every note, every bit of tremolo, every tiny little bit of inflection, and still, the best i would ever be is a poseur. a competant fake. i do know, however, that i can enjoy the works of others, and i will continue to do so. thanks to any and all who create, without you life would be much more dreary.

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the box

Posted on by kylar

i had a box, twas given me way back when i was young

i’d open it, when oft alone, and inside there was hung

my hopes and dreams, my future plans, my talents great and small,

i showed it once, to a friend quite close, and he said “build a wall!

around your box, strong and high, let no one see inside!

put it away, i implore you now, take it now and hide

it far away from the world, where no-one else could find,

for the things you have put inside the box could be twisted most unkind

by dirty crippled others whose souls have withered tight

who take the greatest pleasure in wronging every right. “

so i put my box under the bed, and there i let it stay

i locked the box, and out of fear, i threw the key away

now all my thoughts are safe and sound, and all my dreams secure

and all my talents, great and small, and all my hopes are pure.

to further hide my secret box, i put on a cold afface

i rebuked advances, turned from love to keep my secret place

hidden down inside of me, behind my cold drawn face.

i write this on my deathbed, long and lonely years from now

i would have shared my hopes, my dreams, but i sadly knew not how

to open up my little box, to free my soul, to share

and now i die, afraid, alone, with no-one here to care.

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collateral damage

Posted on by kylar

today in church, my pastor used the term collateral damage – which means ‘civilian casualties or damage during a war’. this is a term which has been used a lot lately – by the press, by advisors and analysts. yesterday on the news i saw an image that wrenched my heart, and burned itself indelibly on my soul. an angry father, holding up a picture of his son – killed in our current ‘conflict’. in the bacground stood his wife and daughter – the sister and mother of a dead soldier. and the father stares into the camera, tears streaming openly down his cheeks, emotions washing clearly across his face: disbelief, sadness, grief, and primarily anger – as he shakes the picture of his suddenly lost son at the people and press and choking back his sobs, he says:

“i want president bush to get a good look at this, really good look here. this is the only son i had, only son.”

that sums up collateral damage to me in a way that is much more stark, piercing and personal than recycled pictures of demolished buildings, big eyed children and rows of bodybags. people lost in wartime, no matter how just or unjust the cause are not the real collateral damage. the survivors who must deal with their loss and try to rebuild their suddenly crumbling lives without their loved ones are.

my next door neighbours are a wonderful older couple who we often see gardening, and always take the time to exchange a simple pleasantry. they have a son george, who is newly married, very nice, and a marine, just reassigned to the middle east. every day i pass them on the way to or from work, or the store, and while they still manage a polite greeting, inevitably it is underscored with a deep sadness and worry – an everyday reminder of the damage that this conflict is inflicting on us. i’m not here to debate right versus wrong, or good versus evil, or even us vs them – everyone needs to come to their own conclusions on that, on their own terms. for some, the fathers, sisters, mothers and brothers of a lost or fighting soldier, is the decision any easier because they’re personally involved? i doubt it. in all my ruminations on the subject, the one thing that i have come to realize as fact is that we are all expendable as ‘collateral damage’ in this time and this conflict, and not a single one of us will walk away unscathed.

yours in sadness – may god keep and protect us all, here and everywhere.

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following the penguin

Posted on by kylar

a penguin was asking for some input on questions about blogging. you can check it out here. i’m going to post my reply because it’s almost a reason why i blog.

her question is:

– what has writing online/the blogging community done for you? how did you
> get involved? why do you stay involved? what are your thoughts about sharing
> your poetry/words online?

well i’m going to point this more at writing online as opposed to the blogging community angle. i write online almost as a catharsis, just for myself. i don’t so much share as just write publicly, like scrawling my thoughts on a subway wall. i think that most poets (and by that i am encompassing bloggers, using it as a loose term not restricted to classical definitions of ‘poetry’) write because they can’t keep their ideas inside. the fact that someone else reads what i write is entirely secondary. it’s the same reason that i play guitar when no-one is around to hear. i’ve always felt like my brain was a huge jumble of ideas that has been waiting to get out, and a blog gives an outlet to shape those ideas, or at least release them from my brain. as to a blogging community, i don’t really know how to define it. is it the blogs that i read on a semi regular basis? or the ones that i interact on? i think the yearning for kinship, of like minded people is what has brought people to other’s blogs, and that is a basic need that is more easily fulfilled online. where previously you might have had to ferret out a poetry class, or independant coffeeshop somewhere, now you can interact from the comforts of your armchair, read and have read your flowing prose, all from safety. some last thoughts about sharing your words online: it’s definately a risk, especially for people who are open and can share their personal lives. i have a great respect for them. if, however, i was truly worried that someone might critique something i’ve wrote in a mean way, or if i had a very fragile self-image (well, i mean, more than most….) then i wouldn’t have put stuff online in the first place, it would still be in a hardbound journal stuck under my mattress.
sorry for going on and on.. that damn penguin is too tempting not to follow.

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sweet caffeine

Posted on by kylar

oh man, some mornings i just can’t even think, i’m so groggy and out of it until i get some caffeine. last night i had a hockey game and didn’t get home till 12:30 am, then had to roll out of bed at 8am for work :(. suck-ay. so of course i go through the motions and finally get myself to my starbucks for a triple mocha, after which i start to be able to actually see, which is a good thing, considering i had to drive the rest of the way to work. that started me thinking about my progression as a coffee drinker, and seeing what the next obvious steps are. these are as follows:

phase 1 : no coff-ay.

these people can get up and not need coff-ay to get themselves juiced for the day. i often hate these people early in the morning, as i find them extremely grating on my nerves. for those of you who live in the bay area: no matter how chipper you feel, don’t feel the need to share before 11am.

phase 2 : recreational coff-ay.

these people are similar to #1, except that they enjoy coff-ay sometimes as a recreational drink. these are the people that drink extra whip carmel frappuccino’s.

phase 3 : fluffy coff-ay drinkers

people who are starting down the path of the darkside, they feel like they’re dragging until they get a little caf, but they can manage without it. people who drink single-shot latte’s and carmel machiattos(sp).

phase 4 : medically necessary

i’m tipping into this category. people who just can’t get the eyes open without a couple cups of drip (home or store) or at least 3 espresso shots.

phase 5 : peet’s drinkers.

i tip my hat to people who can drink anything from peets. the last time i tried a large drip from peet’s, my co-workers had to peel me off the ceiling with a wireless antenna tied to some cat-5. these people are the epitome of the dark side. last year in the bay area, 19 deaths and 121 maimings are attributed to peet’s drinkers who had not yet had their first cup, and were interacted with by someone who is in the #1 or #2 category. may god have mercy on their souls, because the peet’s corporation surely will not.

lastly i would like to mention a point that was brought up by a colleague – that i don’t spent much time talking about people who don’t drink coff-ay, or whom drink other forms of caffeine. you’re right, i don’t. wusses.

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