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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