January 2, 2019
There is something romantic about the clacking of ink stained metal hieroglyphs. A similar romance exists in the dropping of diamond tipped plastic into etched grooves of vinyl. It’s that little extra effort of intention. Or perhaps it’s that little extra risk of getting it wrong. Bringing your toes to the edge of the cliff to practice your art. Dangerously close to disaster to make it raw, net-less, unrehearsed. It’s an edge where most would approach hesitantly. Typewriter poetry. Constraint, confidence, and the dexterous skill of fingers on keys. A noble art I can respect. One need not wonder why.
Tap tap tap cl-click click clack. (New Mindfulness of Doom Episode Coming Tomorrow)
A word smith, nay, a word hobbyist I may be. But my voice is deliberate, discerned, and debated before descending to the page. A blinking vertical line reminds me that I can always retract and reform. It is an untimed chess game with myself. Merely marks of a bohemian mind. Untempered by time constraints these words are just a well decorated presentation. Clever perhaps, but lacking the sharpness of wit.
I sit in the shadow of professionals Devan Kingsford and Erika Evans. Smiths worthy of words. They add tempo, pacing, and meter to say nothing of rhythm and the occasional rhyme. Topics are bought wrought and moved to purpose. Beautiful poetry formed in the same time it took me to write this sentence. Their art wasn’t crafted so much as it was forged… on the streets. Which is not a turn of phrase. They are literally on the street. Boots on the ground. Making art in real time. It’s more than a little bad ass.
I never grew out of that mix tape phase. Sorry, mix cd. No? Fine. Playlist. I still make playlists. Neophyte.
The making of a great compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do. It takes ages longer than it might seem. John’s right, using someone else’s poetry to express yourself is delicate. You have to hook your audience, entice them to show that you have something worth spending their time on. Then you have to consider pacing, length, tone, meaning, and flow, all while keeping the arc of the emotions you are trying to evoke in the proper order. It’s a lot of forethought that will never be known except to the creator. After all the songs on display will conjure unique feelings in each listener.
Recently I have crafted two playlists. They were made for a listener of Mindfulness of Doom who recently reached out to me. She sent me a playlist of her own that was phenomenal. The first song just blew me away. I’d never heard it but it was exactly what I needed to hear. The connection reminded me that I had something personal to say, and I chose to say it with other peoples’ poetry. Feel free to check out my mixes…ugh…playlists on my Spotify profile.
11 Decembers
Art is an attempt to explain the inherently unexplainable nature of experience; to express what it’s like to exist in the universe from a unique perspective. These songs attempt to explain, autobiographically, the arc of my experiences from 23-33: adventure, depression, heartbreak, and self-love. (Track 16 will be a pleasant treat for Mindfulness of Doom listeners
Driving North, Going South
Long form emotional road trip music with limited lyrical interruption.
Corydharma
~Hey there with the pretty face, welcome to the human race.
Listen to the Podcast Episode: Episode 38 – Itinerant Gypsy Poets with Devan Kingsford and Erika Evans
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