Saturday, June 29, 2013

The Other Night, a poem by Harrison Aye

She was caught up like she always was.

She would pause things,

they were still-frames in her mind.

From the audience she’ll follow you

with her incandescent eyes.

The first two hands to strike applaud you.

They set off a chain reaction,

Christ, that crowd adores you.

A bold technician turns the spotlight.

Can you overthrow the banshees and

slay the critics this night?

Because they see all

and they cannot be seen.

I entered in your dioramic view

from a crawl space,

where you could not see behind.

From this lofty spot I dreamt of you,

in senescence and supine.

The other night,

when I told you what I thought of your design,

the path that you chose, deceived us all.

the other night I chose to be the only one,

the one that told you and freed us all.

But paint doesn’t come off dry.

I left it there despite.

The set’s a brilliant red,

I painted you instead

I think I’m going to blog a little bit today about what exactly I did with the month of June as a writer. First off, I didn't do much. Excuses, excuses, I know. I worked a summer camp for special needs kids all June, but it has finally ended. It was a fieldtrip camp, and it tired me out most days (although it was a ton of fun).

Beyond that, something has blocked my writing from me, and I should just put it this way: I’m not good at splitting my creativity. I usually can only handle one artistic project at a time. Before wanting to become a writer, I spent every drop of my creative-self writing songs for the bands I was in. When I moved to Seattle, I had left behind my musician friends, and therefore was able to focus solely on making my novel happen. 

Now, since moving back to the homelands, I’m enjoying making music again. I’ve always been the songwriter in whatever band I’ve been in, and it started out that way mainly because I was the only one of my friends who would do it. However, it grew to be my main outlet of personal expression. I wrote hundreds of songs and selected a few to become full-band performance pieces. I have a hundred-something page document of pure lyrical madness. 
me performing at Pop's Nightclub, a long time ago
My drummer and I are planning to start a new band, and I’ve made it my intent to write all-new music for it. I want to see what I can come up with as the person I am now rather than simply reuse the old material. So, that’s been eating my creative energy. Maybe I’ll update again when I get that going. So far, I’ve written seven songs. They are really cool and fresh (I think)! But, I feel like I’m finally getting back to the point where I can focus on writing fiction again. I guess I just needed a break after doing my novel’s 2nddraft. 

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Friday, June 7, 2013

Thank you, frailty; thank you, consequence

This is a bit of abstract prose I wrote on the subject of natural talent. Consider it a break from my usual; a poem of paragraphs.

One thing that I am thankful for is my lack of natural talent.
 I know many naturally-talented people, and in the past, I used to be insanely jealous of them. It was hard watching so many people kick off the starting line like an ostrich running from a lion, leaving me to pat the dust off my shoulder. It was hard watching others succeed quickly at the abilities I wanted to master.

They were the wonderful; the awe-inspiring. I looked up to them; learned from them.

As for myself… I’ve had to work hard to get my abilities and talents. Everything I’ve ever truly desired has been a desperate struggle against my natural ignorance. I have fought against everything to become myself. I wasn't born a rock star. I wasn't born intelligent or a prodigy.

Now, I see natural talent trickling out all around me; leaving the once-omnipotent omnivores alone and unsure of how to progress. They don’t understand the concept of building character. They want to fly without evolving the required aerodynamic body.

It is clear that natural talent only takes a person so far.

From them, there is nothing that fills my eyes with wonder anymore. I’m learning things far beyond them now. It was sad to see you again, but seeing you affirmed the path that I need to take.

Those who don’t leave must stay. Starting nowhere taugh
t me the climb. The top of the wall taught you to look down. Our necks strain either way.

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The Abstract Late Night Drabble About Love.

I feel like I should type something meaningful into this box tonight. Something about the weirdness of life. The depth of the spiral. I want to say that you can be anything you want; do anything you want, but that isn’t always true. Sometimes you just can’t have your desires unfold. Sometimes you can, always. I suppose it depends upon the desire. This is all so abstract, I know.
Does the person with no desires left have a reason to keep living? I’m not that person, which is why I’m asking. Everyone wants something or another, right? Possessions, relationships, experiences, conceptual achievements, intellectual property. I suppose we could also say legacy. Is a stake in a company like a stake in the soil? I wouldn’t know. I don’t own any sort of either.

  I do have graffiti scratched under desks, dead skin cells stomped into carpets, photographs posted online. What is anyone but eternal these days? Will someone delete my blogs someday? Even Xanga survives, barely. What am I getting at? Something about desire, legacy, dandruff?

I have a tiny congress in my mind, and they’re arguing over everything. What to want, what to do, where to go. I’m all sorts of pushme-pullyou and underdog overlord. Frilly silly white and curly wigs pinned on yappers. Would the senator from North Dakota please sit down and be quiet? Why are you even ever? Bury it bury it too many flies.

Love is like two forms sketched on paper. The Vitruvian Man Venn diagram. Skewed, but overlapping. My hand to your mind; your hand to my mind. Some parts of you bridge. Some parts do not. Some only touch. I’ve thought about it before: You and me, laying out under the stars. Touching the springy grass and whispering about the constellations. On a map of the here and now, we crisscross in the center. Senescent and supine. Losing time.

It’s really just a sketch. I’m not even a real artist. You didn’t pose for me. Mannequins and imagination, really, that’s all this is. I guess this is what happens when you drink too much coffee and expect the sun to remain out. Or not. Are you still reading? Then you’re loyal. Thank you. Great, now I feel like you need to be rewarded.  Always better when later. So, see you late.

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