It is and will always be what you say, what you write and what art you actually create that truly matters the most. Popularity doesn’t determine your worth and the followers will always come & go looking for the next big thing. That’s the unfortunate side effect of too much mass media. People not noticing what’s amazing or beautiful, what’s lasting or meaningful right in front of their own eyes. Poetry & art, music isn’t fast food. It’s eternal.
What was once in this world just considered impossible or even science fiction has now become a reality. We have lost so many human lives in such a short amount of time and we have seen our leader’s insincere, disturbed & selfish reactions to it. We have all watched the news and are all now quarantined/forced, let alone reminded every single day of fear, disease and death. Needless to say I’m angry and I will now and until the end of my own days (no matter how long those days may be) will continue to write and as witness create the words that must be said and say what should be said in these times and I encourage all my friends & fellow writers to do the same.
Sometimes in life we go through bouts of failure. No inspiration, the chips are down.
Maybe you’ve lost a friend or a loved one. Maybe you’re behind on the rent. But whatever you’re going through? Never stop writing. Never stop creating. Find those things that mean the most to you. Let them inspire you. Dig into the trenches and fight the war.
And, of course, that is what all of this is – all of this: the one song, ever changing, ever reincarnated, that speaks somehow from and to and for that which is ineffable within us and without us, that is both prayer and deliverance, folly and wisdom, that inspires us to dance or smile or simply to go on, senselessly, incomprehensibly, beatifically, in the face of mortality and the truth that our lives are more ill-writ, ill-rhymed and fleeting than any song, except perhaps those songs – that song, endlesly reincarnated – born of that truth, be it the moon and June of that truth, or the wordless blue moan, or the rotgut or the elegant poetry of it. That nameless black-hulled ship of Ulysses, that long black train, that Terraplane, that mystery train, that Rocket ’88’, that Buick 6 – same journey, same miracle, same end and endlessness.