Friday, June 23, 2006


A poem, song, prose, essay kind of idea about creative failings of normal people and how we stream ourselves according to what we are capable of - or at least how we perceive our own abilities.
Look at them, they express themselves so well - Oh well.
I don't compare and of course I care
But what can I do about it?
I get some solace from their otherwise desperate lives
Whilst I'm locked in an uphill chase. 

Plagiarism my only option.
Of course their songs can never be mine - and of course my life is my own.
I must find a way to make it profound on my terms.
But, overshadowed with the curse of mediocrity, I know I will only ever play to those who could never really understand.
How good these dumbed down people will say I am. But what good is that? They don't know any better.

Gifts are normally wasted on the gifted.
I must either turn off my perception so that I can become one of the miserable masses - or I must use surreal bravado to fabricate the missing talent and hope that the prized label of recognition soothes the gaping hole.

When Joni dies, what will they find in her cupboards? Erudite, beautiful, encapsulating the here and now - even when she speaks of something now so yesterday.
Her happy, sad and poignant life is a vehicle for all of us - and so we pick up a pen to write our own story not in homage, but because ours must be told too.

So are we innately mediocre or is it just that our ability to express is marred by comparison?
Joni's life is, after all, mediocre in essence. It was her expression of it that won her accolades.
But who named you judge?
Who told you that you can naturally discern the difference between wheat and chaff?
Joni had idols. And they had idols too.
Perhaps even the true art of meaning, expression and beauty can inevitably be cast into nothingness.
Then we are all the same, and if everyone is special then no one is at all.

1 comment:

12 Squared said...

thank you, Joni thanks you, also. I'm sure.

exceptional that your mind works on so many levels at once. or, reads so clearly in so many levels at once, I suppose, as these are not all posted in a night, but were read in one.