As it is, the world is a crazy place.
Therefore, as it is,
we all need to find a place,
or a refuge of some sort,
or way, a means to an end,
or to find some kind of balance,
in an unbalanced world,
which is why I am here.
This is my art.
And this is my inspiration.
This is all that I have and
I can say that I have given far too much of myself
but at the same time,
what is art without pain
or a little blood from the heart,
or what is music
without blues for the soul?
Sometimes,
nothing makes sense.
Not life, not even the understandable nature
of who, what, why or when things happen.
I often find myself here,
sitting in this tiny place,
which I have kept alive in my mind,
because, to me,
this is where hope exists.
This place . . .
It’s a room.
you see?
It’s changed some.
It’s grown some and shrunk some
and yes, this place went through wars with me.
This place has seen me through ups and downs
and when I was high on the crest of some
temporary wave, this place was here for me
when the wave came crashing down
or when I was alone,
this place in my head,
this room or to me, this place of peace or safety,
has been brought to you by the
means to an end, to which
in my case, this place is more important to me
than any other in the world.
Yet, I come here each day to show you
or to expose things, like say,
my truths
or my humbling moments
or my catastrophes and nightmares
and even still, I come here
for no other reason than
to find peace.
I am a believer in the magic of words.
Same as I believe in the magic of art
or the ability to write or to create a song.
And music?
Music is an art from the soul.
I don’t sing. I don’t play an instrument; however,
I can relate to the idea of closing my eyes
and allowing myself to put my lips on a saxophone,
or maybe to allow my fingers
to touch the keys on a piano,
and while the world is filled with chaos or mayhem,
and while my actions seem too crazy
to match my intentions or the words I wish I could say
never come out right, at least here
if for no other place in the world
but right here, in this little studio in my head,
which has aged and shrunk and perhaps gone out of date
but either way,
at least here, I can orchestrate my thoughts
or create some kind of symphony.
I swear . . .
This is my music
from the heart and soul.
The sound of my fingertips
when they punch the keys
is no differently redeeming than the strum of a guitar,
or the feel of a piano,
which plays
in some mellow reprieve
of melancholy
or when the whine of a violin when, say,
someone like Beethoven felt alone or lonely
or unloved or unlovable yet,
he was able to create a song or a sheet of music,
which came as a mark of redemption
or acted like a solution to a burdened heart
or as a means of defense to a sorry or lonely heart,
misunderstood, perhaps lovestruck and unreturned,
or if for no other reason than to just write or play
or to rid oneself of the sad or dreary little heartbreaks
which tend to build up and grow momentum;
art has a way of making the pain make sense.
See, chaos is an understandable thing.
So is pain.
To some people, chaos is dependable,
along with pain,
which is not to say that this is a good dependency, at all
but at the same time,
at least you know where you stand.
This is why hope can be seen as dangerous
because this is where disappointment comes
to pull a sweep
or to pull off a trick.
And hope?
Well, my sweetest friend,
hope is the enemy of chaos and at the same time,
this is where the ideas of fear come in
or this is where shame takes root
and this is where the worries and insecurities come
in to starve the sunlight
and kill or suffocate an otherwise flower
that could have bloomed—and been beautiful too,
that is . . .
had it not been devoured
by the weeds of some chaotic notions.
Just to write.
Just to let my fingers punch the keys,
or just to feel somewhat untouchable,
which is why I come here
because no one can hurt me here
or misinterpret me here
and, even if they do,
So what?
I can say that when it comes to art, this is my studio
or, it could be said
that this is my playground for the child within,
subjective as ever, of course and yes,
this is my way of expression and no,
my style is my own, which means
this might not be for everyone
or even anyone else, but then again,
this place in my head
it wasn’t built for anyone else
(except for maybe . . . you).
These words are not placed here for anyone
(except for you)
and whether I love as well as the next man,
or not
I know that I can love with all of my heart
even if my heart is crazy sometimes,
or weak, or unsure, or jealous and like a madman,
even if I lose my head,
I can say that at least here in this little place,
I know who I am
and why I am here
(with you)
This is my art, right here.
These are my notes and keys
which I play either on or off-tune,
and whether I will ever reach the names
of great poets like O’Hara,
or if I ever play a note as well as say,
Mozart or Beethoven,
or even if I never make it,
at least I have this place.
I’m not here to be anyone else.
No.
I built this place in my head
for one reason
and for one purpose only.
I come here to be me.
I come here to kill the chaos.
I come here to collapse the unthinkable
and to straighten up,
so I can face the day
as tall as I can be.
At the same time, each poke of the keys
and each tapping sound as I type my way
towards an emotional freedom,
and with every word that appears on this screen— at least
for a little while
or for the moment,
I am . . . .
untouchable.
Not even you could hurt me here.
Well, maybe you
yeah . . .
definitely you
But you wouldn’t do that to me
Would you?
Goodbye, last July
Your year has been unfortunate
But that’s okay.
I don’t blame you
Anymore . . .
The Written Addiction 