"waste management" (r)evolutionized
I've read recently that once you set yourself to something, everything is no longer possible. In such modes of endeavor, we creatives trap ourselves in a medium. Conversely, I've accomplished, as it were, very little in any one mode: I have begun and abandoned an English degree at a prestigious yet fallow institution; my poetry has profited me nothing despite publication in my local backwater; and my visual art literally scrapped together I have, in majority, left by the wayside. My recent pursuits have been as unyielding as the San Bernardino desert, and yet... I am knotted now to a transparent self-expression. Amateur, unequivocably, but that is the nature of the dilettante, a satellite to hir own navel.
If a particular methodology has cemented for me after a protraction of adolescence, its name is "waste management." For Shakespeare, all the world is a stage; for Lady Gaga, the whole of life is to play; and I have discovered my times as a matter of the secondhand, the utility of refuse. Like a master of the craft, my imperative is the nigh godly act of creation, from my persona(l) epicenter, that of *my* habitable universe. One can hardly imagine a Shakespeare staging other playwrights' bills, or a Gaga untheatrical; in similar fashion, my artistry cannot but be borrowed, hack-and-slash postmod collage with a modest requisite of originality. I take the discards of one moment's passion and immortalize the prey of consumption without regard to whose propriety may be (mis)represented. From trash and the jettisons of sometime dedication, I synthesize free verse, two-dimensional sculpture transgressing valuation, and exercises in essay and song.
I deem this management of waste for my materials' disposability, suspended from some terminus in a landfill by adhesives, frenetic composition, and ritualism. As much as my writerly trajectory is externally influenced by glancing contact with my forerunners and superiors--occasionally even my peer (cf. "Undressing Byron", Jeremiah Moriarty)--, as much as my art takes its cue from a postmodern reading of Warhol, however, it is mine. I settle at acquaintance with tradition rather than intimacy, for the oeuvre documents my oft-neglected potentialities, a record due respect, I suppose, without the stringency of respectability. Even my violin is a castoff, and by its elegance I mean eek out pop: trite, ephemeral pop.
I was not always so ambivalent to others' appraisal, unembarrassed to manifest myself viscerally. Those formative teenage years to which self-exploration and the preliminaries of actualization are prescribed found me a highly resistant participant. I secreted a personality I ought to have nourished behind an apologetic self-consciousness from 13 onward, causing noted discomfort on the part of any would-be friend, colleague, or confidant attempting an understanding of me. If I indeed lived behind deadening neurosis, it was entirely private--I felt freedom under headphones alone as I began to cast aside self-seriousness as I listened to Millionaires' "Just Got Paid, Let's Get Laid", Marina and the Diamonds' "Shampain", and, of course, "Beautiful, Dirty, Rich" of the Mother Monster and all of the then dollar-signed Ke$ha's sleazy catalog. Behind tearful eyes of the darkest brown, I was confidently trash-pop.
I had wanted to be a writer since a childhood enamored of the Bard, on the other hand. Writers, I believe it is preconceived, are respectable wordsmiths, a far cry from trash of any sort. Exceptions do exist, without a doubt, but during my tender years, I couldn't have been said to be one of them. In high school, I demonstrated a flair for literary criticism, verbose and didactic, so perhaps , had I better socialized, my work wouldn't have lacked admirers. But I never let my peers in. Besides, torn between trash-pop and les belles lettres, I hadn't reconciled myself to a singular identity for but the strangest of bedfellows.
And then I went to college, smart, drugged and drunk college. I may lack a degree , but the post-secondary gauntlet did confer upon my significant relief from the inhibition of pretense and absolute sanity. Like a 3M tape, the fix was relatively cheap, or, rather, it was well-subsidized.
My history is little to boast of, but you may have guessed pride means little to me Rather, my past is my vehicle into the present and I would sport it with a grin as I essay all directions, that is, until that tomorrow when waste management amounts to some thing.
I am a dilettante of shifting and various proclivities, 25, living in the Californian desert. Each dream bleeds into the next, a process that subdues my poetry to a constant psychoautobiographical metaphor. The only constants have been free verse, a gently squawking violin, and hyperbolically hued imagery.
I live for validation, aspirations of fame, Warholianism, and, recently, my self. Oh, and faulted honesty. As such, I would love to correspond with [you], for we've found each other, haven't we?