I write the things here that I wish people could tell me when I’m struggling to continue to be creative in a world that values quantity, production and purchase over form or function.
If you really want to know more about what this blog is about, check out the post I wrote called Program Yourself to Be Your Own Self. That about sums it up. Another summation is Your Title: Does it Define You As A Person.
One thing I do here (when these people acquiesce to my bloggy whims) is showcase a variety of work from other creative peeps, from photographers to fashionistas, writers to musicians. People who think they are artists and people who don’t think they are, because so many people seem to struggle with the am I or am I not quandary. I think only you yourself can decide if you are or you aren’t.
In my opinion creativity breeds creativity.
Mostly my conversations are directed at nebulous others who I have not yet met, but who I think are really cool. These (quite possibly imaginary) people are building up their own towers of Babel. They will defy the majority’s misappropriation of resources. They will use the fuel from their maladjustment to divine meaning from within tar pits of fracture and disillusionment. Because of their dedication to illumination we will break out of our current society’s stricture of wayward structures and pain.
I’m nobody, just a muse.
(I am a published, working writer and working hard on being more of a full-time musician (singer/guitarist), though I have no delusions of grandeur. Ok, maybe sometimes. So sue me.)
We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams.
World-losers and world-forsakers,
Upon whom the pale moon gleams;
Yet we are the movers and shakers,
Of the world forever, it seems.
With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world’s great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire’s glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song’s measure
Can trample an empire down.
We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o’erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world’s worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.