Wednesday, October 9, 2013

Stood Up (An Interactive Blog)

Stood up. I am sitting alone in Glazer’s on South King St., where the …


      1.     coffee is                   a. hot
2.     the clientele is         b. flowing
3.     and creativity is       c. fresh

Flighty. This is the word I now use to describe the muses who, in the past, have hooked my Bohemian heart. Nelly Furtado captures their essence: “I’m like a bird / I’ll only fly away / I don’t know where my home is / I don’t know where my soul is”

Now, I’ll be the first to admit: we artsy/feely types don’t tend to have much structure in our lives. But once in a while – say, every 3 months or so, give or take a year – we’ll realize the ramifications of our unharnessed fluidity. Possible omens include:

1.     abandoned                   a. projects
2.     low                              b. friends
3.     disappointed                c. account balances
4.     empty                          d. sense of self
5.     lost                              e. refrigerators
6.     deleted                        f. clients

So, last week, after freshly experiencing the pain of (select one item from the above list) my gypsy friend declared to me her desire for structure. This came after I confessed how terribly inconsistent I am in writing and editing blogs. The solution to both our problems: We’ll do it together! Wednesday morning! At Glazer’s on South King! I love that place! Me too!

I should clarify at this point that this was not supposed to be a date. She is hardly the Lenny to my Manti. She is, in fact the …

a.     girlfriend
b.     ex-girlfriend
c.     crush
d.     inspiration
e.     all of the above
f.      none of the above

of my …

a.     best friend
b.     room mate
c.     worst enemy
d.     future self
e.     a. and b. only
f.      c. and d. only

It was an attempt by two artists to improve our art by fostering the very unartistic characteristics of consistency, reliability, and accountability.

But she canceled. Little did she know that today was the day I would be bragging on her, about how she is the gifted photographer responsible for every image on my latest album Overhead and that I would be referring people to her site:
Alas, who will tell me whether I’ve mistakenly used one adverb too many? Or suggest that readers won’t know off-hand who Lenny and Manti are? Or question whether “alas” is too archaic a word to appear in any form of digital media at all?

In asking myself these questions, the answer becomes clear: I will. I have to. At the end of the day, no one is responsible for my artistic output but me. I may blame weather or laundry or my dad, but in reality,

if I am willing to accept applause for my efforts, I must equally accept responsibility for my lack of output. 

It seems my blog against the inconsistencies in others has proven to be a tirade against myself. I am the inconsistent flight risk, undisciplined even in activities I enjoy. Paul captures my essence: "Therefore you have no excuse, everyone of you who passes judgment, for in that which you judge another, you condemn yourself; for you who judge practice the same things." 

And so, Ms. Heaston, my ghost-partner-in-crime and mirror image of myself, I forgive you. And I am calling us out. Let's give this world our best. Let's end the apathy, you and me and every other writer of a thousand unfinished poems -- mothers and fathers of aborted drafts. Our abandoned art awaits us, alone in a coffee shop, crying out for the appropriate adverb.