Who are these so called artists? A rant by Matthew C. Mackey

Through one of my many travelings and conversations, I was surprised to come across the idea that artists (in this case poets) are nothing more than “Pansies.” Hmmm… We must live in a world where true masculinity and femininity is still misconstrued by stereotypes. I am a male and much of the conversation revolved around masculinity, so I will stick to this side of the issue. Basically, an artist is not a manly-man. I must admit I was more than a little ruffled. There is a common misconception that holds that art is merely an escape from a world of problems.

Now, I must say that many of these voices are highly intelligent professionals in a wide range of disciplines ranging from cancer research faculty to homicide detectives to science instructors and mathematicians. I think it is merely a misunderstanding. I don’t comprehend atoms or what causes cancer. I have never been good at algebra, and my mind lacks the deductive presence to solve crimes. I don’t think less of them for thinking something about my passion and maybe someday my profession, though I would never consider them “shallow” or “insensitive.” Many of these I consider very intimate friends and close acquaintances. In fact, the majority agree that art in its many capacities is necessary to achieve a more perfect and whole world. I do have a point to make, and if I continue that should hopefully be clear.

What should the creative do then? Raise arms against tyranny? Fight with physical strength to end opposition? What, if anything, are we even fighting? I am reminded of Martin Luther King Jr. Where would we be now if he had raised a militia to wage war on the political and social powers of his time? More of a threat he was with words than pistols.

However, truth there was in this conversation I had. If I have a voice, should I not speak? If I have a mind, should I not lend it? This is the only definition of a coward that I see fit for this discussion–indifference. We artists, if I can call myself one, have power far too often misused or abandoned. Like Martin Luther King Jr. before us, our word, our visions, our music can bring change as well. I think of the parable about a drop of water.

     There is a little boy and his grandfather fishing in a lake. Clouds roll in and the boy becomes upset because he wants to keep fishing.

“I hate the rain. What good is a drop of water anyway?,” said the little boy.

“Ha ha boy,” grandfather laughed, “When it rains does only one drop fall?”

Grandfather then pointed to the lake as a drop hit the surface.

“Do you see how one drop ripples the surface?”

Grandfather then pointed to the bank eroding away.

“Do you see how many drops change the soil? You see boy, it only takes one drop to move the water, and moving water changes the mountain.

I’m not sure if I got this 100% correct, but the sentiment is the same. We have the ability to change the soil…

So, the question remains. How does one create a river without drowning? Perhaps a better question is should I even care. Maybe it is a question of purpose. Why am I an artist? Why do I speak? Yes, I am not your typical manly-man. I am no muscular brute. I am OK with that, but I should not want to be considered a “Pansie.” I suppose my pride was hurt more than anything. I consider this conversation a challenge to myself and other artists. What are we doing with our selves? I often ask a friend of mine, where have all the heroes gone? Where are the giants of poetry? I suspect, at least for now, they are either sleeping or hiding in stuffy parlors angularly criticizing any of us lesser mortal’s attempt to climb the beanstalk.  Maybe we don’t need to be heroes or giants. Someone else, I’m sure, can assume the role. In a previous post, I asked what people were chasing. Now, I ask you, specifically artists, what are you fighting for? A publication, social change, survival, love, an audience, a legacy? For you movie lovers: “Get busy living or get busy dying,” from The Shawshank Redemption. Instead of retreat, escape, perhaps a charge is more appropriate. Another question: should artists be implements of social change?

A call to arms fellow artists. Pick up your brushes and pens, your instruments of desire. Rise to the call of your muse. Change the world, and if not the world, your heart.

“And even if we should fall, we’ll know at one point we were standing up.”

–Anonymous

I apologize for ranting. A little wine goes a long way. 

I leave you with the immortal words of William Butler Yeats:

To My Heart, Bidding It Have No Fear

    By William Butler Yeats

---

Be you still, be you still, trembling heart;
Remember the wisdom out of the old days:
Him who trembles before the flame and the flood,
And the winds that blow through the starry ways,
Let the starry winds and the flame and the flood
Cover over and hide, for he has no part
With the proud, majestical multitude

 

 

 

Side Walk Meeting

Little Beetle on your back

little baby Beetle

rolling arms and legs

 -walking upside down

carapace wings

precious delicate antenna

I am so afraid of you

 

As long as it’s on paper, it looks good.

I had mentioned that I sat down and sketched out some chunks for writing. That seems to be the only writing I’ve sat down to do. It’s on paper now, so…you know. Good luck to all those unfortunate creatures (mostly referred to as English majors) condemned, like myself,  to live blissfully enough to induce procrastinate.

 

Well, I finally started…sort of.

So, I finally sat down and hacked out a good five hours a week to devout to writing. Of course, I haven’t done any writing yet and imagine I will find things that have little in common with writing to occupy those hours, but I’ve finally got something “down on paper.” The most important thing I can do as a writer is write. These sessions are significant because they have less to do with product than practice. Simple fact: the more I write, the better I should become. What little discipline I have, this should be a challenge.  If I’m at all serious about my work, I must not resign myself to being mediocre and half-assed. I’ve heard it is better to be average and hardworking then brilliant and lazy. Wouldn’t it be nice if I was average and lazy, I mean brilliant and hardworking. Yes, brilliant. Hmm, quite.

What about you? Is there anything worth dedicating time to? Perhaps there is an extra forty minutes you could dedicate to your passion (remember those things we chase?) instead of eating Frito’s on the couch. I know what you’re saying. “I love Cheetos  though.” I would say, I thought we were talking about Frito’s. Yes, quite. Well, I should expect to see cheese stains on the bent corners of a draft or crumbs in the keyboard. (I’m mostly talking to you writers).  Whatever your passion may be, surprise it with flowers and a back-rub.  Spend some time with your lover,  get to know each other.

No, I’m no Casanova, but I appreciate the compliment.  Remember, it’s not about production. It’s about persistence.

 

“I never eat anything for luncheon.”

I just breezed through W. Somerset Maugham’s “The Luncheon.” What a terrific short story. It may even be considered flash fiction being roughly three pages long.  A student suggested I read it claiming it is one of his favorites. Larry David must be a Somerset Maugham fan. For those of you who don’t know who Larry David is, he is the creator of “Seinfeld” and “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” It was a great read, and I suggest anyone looking for a quick bit of insight or a little humor check out more of Somerset Maugham’s work. He has a lot of short stories, so enjoy.

 

Growing Old One Song at a Time

I recently burned a CD I had previously owned but lost. Thank goodness for I-tunes right? The CD I burned was Brand New’s “Deja Entendu.” It’s a great album, if your into that whiny emo crap like me (that’s right Jason).  Anyway, I used to listen to that album all the time and hearing it again brought back so many good memories. It’s strange that music has the power to transport us back to a specific time. Do any of you have an album or even a song that takes you back to a long forgotten time of your life? When the album came out (2003), I was in my early twenties. I was king of the world. I thought I knew everything and felt everything. The music brought everything back, my twenty first birthday, girls I don’t know anymore, friends I’ve somehow misplaced since then, parties, Make Out Bandits, video games, late Saturday mornings, late night Perkin’s coffee, perfecting procrastination, skipping class, truck stops, road trips. All these little vintage toys I don’t play with anymore. I just look wistfully at the tiny figures and think, “the days of sleeping in my clothes are over.”

 

Well, it’s the beginning of a new semester and I’m teaching writing classes again. This time, however, I’m teaching a state mandated class. Good luck huh? I look forward to it because eventhough I’m not a student I still feel very…”academic.” I’ve been reading poetry books about post modernism and form. I really miss being in the class room, so this is a nice proximity for me. I want to do this as a career, but I think creative writing or even literature would serve me best. I’ve been leaning towards literature. First thing first: Masters in creative writing, then maybe a doctorate in lit. That blue thing above my head is the limit.

 

Emily Dickinson

I’ve been reading a little on Emily Dickinson and some of her poetry. The character of Emily Dickinson is quite fascinating. I’ve heard it said,  “if only I could coax Ms. Dickinson out of her house, even if just to the front porch.”

 

Slow Progress

I’m still sludging through Pilgrim’s Progress. The book has two parts. The first is a dream Bunyan has concerning Christian, the second is a conversation with a traveler concerning Christiana, Christians wife, and her pilgrimage. The second part seems so boring, but I’ve resolved to make it through. Interestingly, Bunyan is psuedo-credited with the first novel. So, it only seems fitting to begin my ‘reading pilgrimage’ here.

 

Weather Make Us Play

What greatness?

What immortal literary conflict?

Probing

throbbing

rain.

Beating

bopping

wailing

rain.

Let us out mama,

let the soaking street kings

outside.

“Fresh as children,”

we, 

slick mammals,

hold our

heads down

hands up

tongues steady. 

Rain,

like slippery piano

keys

plunking

at the muse

of a whimsical

Water Otter,

coltranes

to the the tiny

wet

teeth

of

our planet.

     -Here come the dogs, purple and slobbering.

     -One, two, three junk yard cats ash colored and oval shaped.

Everything hiding, everything exposed

Buddha weather.

Fat glutton, Buddha weather.

Everything happy, perfect,

and sacred.

Everything wet,

dripping,

smoothing,

shuffling.

What silly mortal rain music?

Soft noise,

white noise,

drums -high hat and snare-

dark noise,

hard noise,

jealous horn noise,

scuttle noise,

There he is, walrus tisk whisker noise ,

on the sidewalk walking home.

sustained hush

charcoal noise.

static.

sudden hiss tongue

spraying pavement water

sacred otter

silk mammals

ephemeral

fingers

delicate jazz sky

animal song.