When naming a child, modern parents find themselves faced with a Herculean task. It’s not enough to choose a name that sounds strong. Nor is it enough to chose a name out of a baby book. This is the age of the Internet after all. Modern parents must scour the list of most common high income baby names. They must consider how the name will look on an admissions slip, on a resumé, on a loan application. A name that once signified high stature, might find itself dated, co-opted by the lower classes. Today’s “Madison” is tomorrow’s “Maddy.” What you find to be a strong declaration of your cultural heritage, might just damn your little darling to a life on the pole.
Mr. Song is a song about the role of lyrics in our lives. It’s about connecting to an idea and realizing you are not alone. It waits in your headphones and peaks out at the end of a long hard day. It’s another piece continuing the theme of self referential art.
Its meta tag puts it at about 2004. Its an oldie but a goodie. Check it out.
I am a song
Never mind who sings me
They are just a vessel
A method of delivery Continue reading Mr. Song
Submitted for your approval: you’re writing the great American novel. Scratch that. Your idea is so inspired the great American novel is writing itself. Galactic forces dictate cosmic secrets and you, the humble writer, just transcribe them. You are a vessel, a witness to a celestial ritual that has been documented throughout the ages. Sure, you have a hand in building this universe. You populated it with characters, but the characters have all the real clout. They make the decisions for you.
The writing is automatic. A seance across your keyboard. The characters borrow your hand when they need it. They page you at the least convenient times: at work, in the shower, on the bus.
Lights dim as we enter the room
Songs change mid verse
Desperate hands shake volume knobs to signal
The shoplifters are coming
The shoplifters are coming
Our hands are so deep in our trench coats
They’re coming out the inside
With a wave of yellow fabric
We steal chunks from the setting Continue reading Writers Guild
You’re digging a trench, poring the mortar, stacking the bricks. You’re an author building a brand. Wait for the grounds to grow fertile from the comfort of your spire. Wait for the town’s minstrels to sing praises of your handy work. Wait for the peasants to come clamoring over your draw bridge. Wait and watch the cobwebs form over your intellectual property. The time has come to go out among the commoners. The time has come to plant some seeds out in the country. Send your squires out to tell the world of Camelot.