I become a transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

a post to keep up the fence

I guess art is really just this unspoken challenge to express ourselves within the limitations, within the form. As children we color, trying to color inside the lines. Outside the lines looks messy. Sometimes I want an eleventh finger, but the truth is that an eleven-note chord is pretty messy too. We grow up and those dark borders between the white we're supposed to color and the white we're supposed to leave white become these scary black walls, as if the lines we stayed within grew up with us. These limitations are walls, huge concrete walls, surrounding our little space. A room, a prison, a cage, or maybe a plot of land that can be cultivated. Turning a concrete jungle into a garden. Graffiti the walls, that's the message, I suppose. Grow something here inside, use every corner of the room, fill every inch with color and life. I guess the encouraging thing is that walls notwithstanding (hehe), there is no ceiling. There can never be a ceiling. I spend a lot of time beating my hands against my own four walls, but it turns out you can't water plants with blood, so everything close to the wall is brown and frustrated. If you don't like the walls, you're free to find another room. I like my room, I suppose, this room of hammers and strings and black and white and hundreds of pounds and fingers and feet and three and eighty-eight. Sometimes I fixate on this one wall in my room, the wall of sustenance, I like to call it. I hit a key, I hit any key, I hit it as hard or as soft as I want, I use any number of pedal combinations, it doesn't matter. The sound will stop. Maybe in thirty seconds, maybe in forty-five seconds, maybe five seconds. It always stops. Others have decided that this is an unacceptable wall and they move to cellos or computers or whatever, but I refuse to leave because this room is my home. All I can do is decide the wall is beautiful. To employ some kind of jiu jitsu and use the wall against itself, use the wall in the art. Ivy. I hate the wall of sustenance, I hate the wall of speed, I hate the wall of 88. But secretly I love them. I love how my notes don't last, just like people don't last, how every note of every song whispers, "Memento mori," if you're listening closely. I love how my quote-unquote original music always sounds somewhat like the music I've listened to that week, just like the words I speak and the things I do mirror the people I hear and see. I like my walls when I let them challenge me. I hate my walls when I'm trying to run through them. 


[also caffeine helps]

I'm compositive that isn't a word

I'd Rather Be A Poet