To continue with my previous post, perhaps on some subconscious level I don’t want to be read. Otherwise, why would I have posted the last rant on a blog no one reads. I could have posted it to social media where people may actually read or comment. Perhaps it is better this way for the introvert.
That’s what I’ll tell myself anyway.
The truth is there is a certain comfort in ranting and whining on this blog where it’s out there but not really. However, the fact remains when it comes to my writing and my sounds, I desperately want to be heard, and there lies the problem
I’ve been writing my whole life. I’ve been a published writer for nearly twenty years and involved in the noise/experimental music scene for thirty. I have been putting my art out into the world for my entire adult life. In that time, I have diligently tried to promote myself and I feel no closer to being somebody than when I started.
It’s frustrating. While I am nowhere near as prolific as I would like to be, I truly feel that the art I am producing is better than it has ever been. I truly feel my new book is the best book of poetry I have ever done. And my new album, hands down the best thing I have recorded. I am better than I have ever been, and until these doldrums hit, I was firing on all cylinders.
I don’t know what I expect when I put out stuff. What exactly? Look, I am a middle-aged guy and far from that naïve kid that I used to be. It’s not like I think I’m going to make a living writing poetry or making music… much less of the experimental kind. I have resigned myself to the fact that I will die in this factory. There is no escape.
So, what then? What do I expect? Maybe a little more exposure. A little more acknowledgment. I don’t know, it’s stupid… who the hell am I anyway? The internet has leveled the playing field for the modern artist. It’s never been easier to disseminate words and sound, except there are millions of us, a sea of voices all screaming over each other to be heard, whoring our art on the web to little fanfare. What I want to know is does it cause others the same bleak depression it causes me? Is the innate need to make art a blessing or an affliction?