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| Rough drafts to final recordings |
Hi, Imaginary Friend! Thanks for letting me come to you this time. I've always wanted to wander around your part of Georgia. I'll mix up margaritas while you get ready for the day. *gets to work*
Are you already recording your new album this week? I'm eager to hear what you all have come up with this time. Screw the critics, it's always good, and whatever isn't stellar is still enjoyable.
Are you a perfectionist, Imaginary Friend? Do you get really frustrated when you have to repeat and fix riffs and vocals over and over? I know you're not crazy about listening to your own music over and over-- is that also true in the studio? Remember to have patience with yourself, ok? Make it fun. I personally find the messy work of recording, of writing, of any kind of art to be fascinating.
In celebration of your turning rough drafts to final recordings, I will share with you a poem, or rather a collection of notes, crappy drafts, and the final cut of a poem. (It's pretty short, I promise. It took several drafts to get to a five-line piece I could live with.) I shared the notes with a friend, who promptly took the whole lump of stops and starts to a group of poets and read it aloud. It was received very well, as the writers identified with the halting process of the craft. Here you go. I titled the whole thing "Why Write."
Why Write
words echo
long after life
a resounding charge
requiring all and nothing
a simple admission of self
and then peace follows
(no....)
not a search for the sublime
nor pontification of the profound
not complaint, not homage
a simple admission of self
a nod to the need
only to report
(no...)
"To have his path made clear for him is the aspiration of every human being in our beclouded and tempestuous existence." --Joseph Conrad
"I dare say I am compelled, unconsciously compelled, now to write volume after volume, as in past years I was compelled to go to sea, voyage after voyage. Leaves must follow upon each other as leagues used to follow in the days gone by, on and on to the appointed end, which, being Truth itself, is One—one for all men and for all occupations." --Joseph Conrad
(hm...)
Shameless Ripping from E.M. Forster
leaves upon leaves
ink-stained and hopeful
only to connect
not seeking the sublime
not penning the profound
“only connect”
this unspoken charge
native as freckled skin
only to connect
grasping ineffable lumps
between novice hands
only to connect
shaping interpretations
until success allows the soul (for a moment)
only to connect
(no...)
Verse
Novice hands massage
ineffable lumps with awe,
coax from sublime stuff
a confession of self,
chronicle truth with wonder.
(Yeah. That's it.)
"There is no greater pleasure on earth than to move someone with laughter." --J.S.C. , 12/18/06
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Year of haiku, day 7 (This one's western urban, deviating from the 5-7-5)
Freezing cement underfoot
belies warm-toned sunlight--
I can't find my shoes.
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Posted by Pipedreamer on 2009-11-04 14:59:33 | Rating: | Views: 17
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