sharing cool things

“I have misunderstood the process of making something cool as the process of making something to share.”

No. As the lady at a crafts booth told me, “You are an asshole if you don’t share your art.”

She had strewn about handmade keychains, picture frames, pastel block prints, planters.

This was 6 months ago. This is now.

I don’t know what I am doing. I am picking up equipment to record through the winter.

Here it is. Let’s go for it.

(dives into the water but makes no splashing sound)

Here it is. Let’s go for it.

(leaps back onto the bridge. runs to the garage with a sweater on).

“Here is a guy who everyone wanted to hang out with, but he did not want to hang out with very many people.”

How can this continue as such madness?
Become domesticated or share what you’ve made of your anxieties.
(with grace, if possible).

This was 10 months ago. Now I am entering music
into the S.E. Alaska State Fair songwriter competition,
though last years winner won with a song called “That’s my Mom!”

I have songs to share with you. (Mountain Lion. Profanity Peak. Northwestern Debris).

She had said, “You are an asshole if you don’t share your work.
You have no idea what kind of good it might do for someone
else. Maybe it inspires them to make art of their own. How god-damn
rewarding would that be to know you opened a stranger up
to the wonder and the joy of bringing new ideas into the world?”

Here it is. Let’s go for it.

to-do-list to port

(above is an image of the Ravenna Park Bridge from the early 1900’s)

Today, spread out on my glass top desk, two parking tickets, one inexplicably unpaid from Multnomah County. The other from letting the old black focus “obstruct the sidewalk” on the selfsame street that I goddamn live on. Public comments include “blocking north-south path” and “blocking east-west path.” Either my focus grew into a meat delivery truck over night or my accuser had no access to a compass or the flickering horizon light of the north star before it died in the sunlight. Thanks officer Gardea! I blame my landlord(s). One in an orange hoodie with hood up and pajamas every day. Goes to the trash bins at least 7 times daily. I wonder where all the trash comes from or if they binge and purge hoarding useless disposable crap. The other is a sickly bakery owner. They live next door to me and email me if my music is too loud.

Other on the desk. A globe. Yeah. A cat license overdue ticket. (Will they confiscate Benson if I refuse to act?) I will tell them he got run over my a meat delivery truck if they pursue legal action, hiding him in the bathroom. Huh no cat here. He’ll be taken to the doug fir soon anyway, anyway. Then the pressure cooking sizzle of the stranger’s potential interest in my writing. My writerly artsy writing? an article in the form of free verse poetry? huh huh? you have all the options of the world opening up in front of you and you need need need to rip open the seams of your life and scream into the teeth of the art world.

Well so and the poetry portfolio for pretty pimone. Pay the fines. Write the poems. Edit the shit out of them and make them little vases of contained specific flowers. Wildflowers from the edges and lips of mount rainier. Then the pitches! Then the 48 to Greenwood in a few weeks to tutor kids with writing projects and space travel in general.

Fucking tickets, though. What a mix of things to do today. There is also a hard drive containing gopro footage I’ve taken of The Netherlands & France from last summer. Also all the electronic/guitar music projects I’ve helped create with YUSO over the last few months. Nothing yet released, don’t look it up.