what is it to "make" something? do "they" know? can they tell me the limits of a man's creation? what if i were a singer and i built a chair? would that make me a carpenter? not necessarily but maybe i'm a carpenter who sings. maybe i am neither and they are confused by the smell of oil and spirits and tobacco. how well do they know? what is an artist?
they've been saying recently, "he's moved into the production end of music." did i? and God in all his wisdom has moved into hurricanes and earthquakes?
do they know the chair i build is only a piece of the catalogue; the song i sing only a piece of the same; the record i produce for another is framed in gold leaf and the painting i pour life into will only feed another epic poem? are they limiting me; limiting divinity; limiting the story?
do they know that what i do i do only unto God, and what i'm given to do only pieces along that path? surely. but surely if they loved me... should they partake in all of it? hmm. its funny, they. 5 records now. they act as if they own them all, and yet the faucet drips.
what if my head is simply down like some mad van gogh? and when the muse is dead, perhaps there will be 2700 pieces of catalogued work. perhaps they will sell me and at pauper auctions. perhaps they'll burn the dog-eared corners. they do already. perhaps then, not. regardless, the paint runs thick.
do they know i am only given one turn at living?
jP 22.11.o12
(photo perry hagopian o4)
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