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You’re a feather in the breeze
Prodded rocking side to side No control no direction As you drift upon the wind Jetsam on a broken shore Empty life with hints of more Waiting as your savior Lifts you up to take you in Transparent and so fragile Stripped naked and confused The tears have worn away the underneath You sacrifice your values Give up, give in, give out Prostrated and so Open just to breathe Fragile, cracked and broken Jetsam floats upon the waves Your own needs go unspoken In your offerings to please Opened with acidic hands Your inner self wears thin In a life of hidden winds You’re a feather in the breeze Silent tears in dark of night Only you to hold you tight With loss of soul in darkness In some ungodly way You cry in silent sorrow As the sun unveils morrow You face the waking challenge Of pushing past the day Fragile, cracked and broken Jetsam floats upon the waves Your own needs go unspoken In your offerings to please Opened with acidic hands Your inner self wears thin In a life of hidden winds You’re a feather in the breeze
I wrote this a long time ago.... around 2005 or so. Obviously, I'm catching up on some old writings...
_____________________________________ Day 5: Dear log, It has been a long time now that I have been stranded on this island that is my office. Many suns have risen and set, many moons have lit my nights. I wonder if I will ever escape. Yesterday was interesting albeit as usual, somewhat dangerous. The unknown, along with the clutter, seems always to be like that. I was working my way through what seemed like a large field of debris, searching for nutrients of any kind, or maybe some coffee, when I suddenly came upon a clearing. It was unusual, to say the least. As I looked across the vast wasteland that has become my tormentor, there stood in front of me a large mound, approximately 7 feet wide, 3 feet high, and 4 feet deep. It looked unnatural and I approached it with caution. It seemed almost a living being, yet so long left dormant. The mound was covered with more debris and as I approached, I could feel my heart drum a harder, faster beat within my chest. I stared upon this mound, so covered from time past, and felt the evil within. It could only mean danger. I reached my hand out, barely touching the edges of dust and cobweb soaked clutter, so long ago lost to sunlight. It lay there silently, almost daring me to come closer. I did so. With trepidation and a rising sense of danger, I moved the dust cloaked edge of debris a little more. No response. I did it again, my rising caution screaming out. Nothing. I wiped away more of the remains to find a smooth brownish textured layer underneath. What kind of aberration could this be?? It looked man made. I wiped away more, my anticipation and curiosity almost making me throw caution to the wind. I stared aghast, amazement running through my veins as I gazed upon something I could never have imagined. There in front of me was a long ago forgotten desk. A chill shot through me as I contemplated the meaning of this new discovery. Someone had been here before. As the dust slid and lifted, I could see file folders with vaguely familiar names of cases not yet finished. I slowly opened a drawer. Wow, I thought to myself... paper clips. Sticker thingies. A stamp! I could write for help!! Suddenly my hand rubbed against a small hard lump. Caution and fear once again shot through me as I jerked backwards. No movement. I slowly reached for the object again. It was gray with small button-like buttons. I pressed one. Suddenly from across the island that is my office came voices from under a large pile of 3-ringed binders and industry magazines!! I rushed over, my legs churning, held back against the currents of debris. Hacking my way closer, I shoved the dust covered binders aside, hoping to find someone alive. As I moved a baseball cap and a can of Slimfast, I saw a glow. My eyes stared in wonderment. No... I would find no one alive this day. That was too much to hope for. However, there would be communication. The AM/FM CD Tape player glowed its' digital glow as sound from a long forgotten band called "Train" wafted through the air. I barely remembered them. I have been on this island that is my office too long. Some day log, I will get off this island that is my office and be set free to enjoy life as it should be. For now though, I continue on, exploring the dark danger-filled corners and long forgotten file cabinets, answering the phone, doing reviews, and the occasional wholesaler-sponsored lunch. David S. Chorney
This is something I wrote wayyyy back when my daughter was first born. Must have been sometime in 1997...
_______________________ A bunch of people who saw the pictures I sent of my new born daughter Marlee, commented on them. It made me think. I need a plan for when she wants to date. So far, I jotted down some ideas… No make-up, no earrings, and no dates until she’s 30. In-home schooling too. Every boy who wants to even talk with her has to pass a written and oral exam plus I interview his parents by gun point. Salt peter must be present in his diet, and he must offer to do 50 hours per week of community service work around MY house until he’s known her for 7 years or until he dies, whichever comes first. He must go through a metal detector. If he has an earring, a nose ring, or any other piece of jewelry, he must ASK me to tear if off him. He must be a big fan of Perry Como. I am NOT a fan of Perry Como, but if HE is, I’ll feel better. He must be regularly contributing to an IRA and know the difference between a bond, a stock, and a mutual fund. His car can’t have any dents or dirt on it. If he ever sits outside and beeps for my daughter, he will either be shot, or he will stay sitting outside and beeping for the rest of his endangered life. If his jeans EVER fall below the point where his hips start, I will tear them off him so fast he’ll think he forgot to get dressed, and kick him back outside. He must insist on calling me “Sir”. If he ever even tries to come into actual physical contact with my daughter, he’ll wish he was being slowly eaten by dogs. He must naturally enjoy bowling, sunsets, puppy dogs and helping out in senior citizen homes. He needs to speak at least three languages fluently, know how to write a business plan, know how to create a DNA model with Tinker Toys, and do fractional square roots in his head. He must make me laugh. Hard. He must make Marlee laugh. He must bring a bouquet of flowers for my wife and roses for Marlee. If he brings RED roses for Marlee before he has known her for at least 9 years, he will eat them. He must be on time. He can be up to 30 seconds early, but he can NEVER EVER be late for my daughter. If he IS late, he should only consider ringing that doorbell with a finger he is not fond of. Okay, that was off the top of my head. I will formulate the other 75% of my plan when I’m not feeling quite as relaxed. Marlee’s Dad
I needed to imagine a grin on your face,
if just for a second or two. The sun pouring down for a brief point of time, falling down as to shine just for you. I needed to dream of a mere moments lapse, where I see your half sleepy smile. At least I can feel I turned on the sun, if only, if just, for awhile. I needed to imagine a brief point in time, where the day glow could shine down on you. I needed to think that I could do that, if just for a second or two. - David S. Chorney
Okay, so yes... the title for this post doesn't really make any sense. But I just realized that I really need to start writing more entries into this blog, and I wasn't sure what kind of entry I wanted to make, so... well.... there ya go.
I realize these posts are all supposed to be art related. But I don't really know how much I can post about "just art" and not bore the heck out of all of you. And me. So I think I would actually just like to write, and make conversation, and post things I enjoy writing about. Besides photography, painting and burning abstract designs into wood (and sometimes my hand accidentally), I also do a lot of writing. I have no idea whether it's any good or not, but I enjoy doing it, and I like what I write, so I guess I'll keep it up. Although one of the things that keeps me pretty humble about my writing is that all too often, when I go and look at something I've written long ago, I usually don't like it nearly as much as I did when I first wrote it. Most times, when I first write something, I think it's prize worthy. I mean... I am sometimes prone to thinking I've written something profound, and probably a partial secret to helping humankind. Then, a year or two later, I'll read it again and just be glad I never showed anyone. But what the heck... I might actually post some of my writings in here. Either that or just have some kind of one-sided running conversation. Which is what most often happens when I'm working in the yard or garage or some other place by myself. So I'm used to it. So there you go. I've finally posted something in here. And I even gave it a spiffy title.
I, like many other artists, would like to think I’m a good artist. I’d like to think that someday, my artwork will be considered precious collectibles for those lucky enough to collect some when the prices, way back when (today), weren’t stratospheric. And even though I do like being honest with myself, I still like to fantasize, so let me. Don't be a killjoy.
By the same token, I’ve come to the conclusion that there is no good art. There’s also no bad art. There is just…. art. That’s not the same as saying there is no successful or unsuccessful artist. At least monetarily. Ask any starving artist… they’ll tell you… there’s definitely a difference. Successful art, at least in a monetary sense, is the stuff that becomes precious collectibles. But art, in itself, is neither good nor bad. It’s just a representation of something from within. Now… maybe if you want to be nitpicky, you could say that bad art is when an artist represents something from within, and it got WAY lost in translation. But really… only the artist knows that. And if they haven’t destroyed this bad art already, then they’re probably going to rationalize that it really DOES represent whatever it was they wanted to represent ("My painting, 'Girl Getting Of Horse In Field' looks like a potato because it was an introspective look at her relationship with her mother during her dark years"). But really, there is no good or bad art. Just art itself. And each piece of art connects somewhere inside with potential viewers. Some art connects with the artist him or herself, and very few others. And some connect not only with the artist, but with a huge amount of the viewing public. It is the art that connects with huge numbers that is usually considered “good” art. But I contend that it’s neither good, nor bad. It just happens to connect to more. Art is not made to connect with as many as possible. It is made to represent something the artist sees or feels, either from within, or in life itself. How many it connects with is something totally different. It’s nice when it does connect with many, but maybe all that means is that the artist, emotionally, was more aligned with others than maybe a different artist might have been. There are tons of critically acclaimed artists that die broke. Being a monetarily successful artist, doesn’t mean they were better or worse. Just more aligned. And any artist who is true to him or herself, won’t change what they do just to sell more art. Okay…who am I kidding…of course they will. Maybe. Sometimes. For some. Those who create art for a living... do have to make a living after all. It's fun not to starve. And support your family. But you get the picture. |
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