There’s a green gray soot caked on the table, one of those enameled steel constructs of the 50’s with drop down leaves and shiny u-shaped legs looping to the floor. I clean the grime with a raggedy towel, notice some viney weeds winding up the legs to the built-in silverware drawer that fascinated me as a kid.
What interest could such a thing possibly have for you, unless you collect antiques or remember tables like this in your granny’s kitchen, or have a penchant for cleaning. Ho hum, yawn, I feel you reaching for the clicker.
Songwriters do have an edge. We get to use all this gorgeous music to bring artist to listener; sound poems sweep down the canyon joining our respective mesas. Granted, music, like words, in the hands of a hack can leave a listener with nothing she hasn’t heard before. And ‘new’ is the essence of art, yet another sign that life and art are siblings, twins, alter egos. What is a life if not unique? Some kind of human robot. What is an art work if it tells what we already know? Some kind of waiting room decor, the tribute band, cliché on a sucker stick.
All of which strays from the occasion: how to bridge experience, writer to reader. The way to be discovered via the risk of setting out.
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