As I sit here, unable to sleep due to a recent familiarity with an economy size box of post-halloween subsidized fruit snacks, and unable to occupy myself with the proper varietal of kitten videos, “which A-Team member should I marry?” questionnaire, or deviant pornography, my gaze has been forced inward toward us, my fellow tumblrerers.
What exactly is our relationship here? I find my eyes wandering northeast, checking the slow climbing number of followers like a smoker in an emergency room waiting area. As if I’m made or broken by a number that I haven’t had the time or imagination to conceive yet. But who are you to me, but a cheap date? A quick ‘man stepping on a rake’ video, and then boom, no goodbye, no call. The rub here though, is that in exchange, I suppose I’m creating art. Not fine art in my opinion. No middle-aged man in New Balance, plaid shorts, a red golf shirt, and Disney ball cap is going to wait in line with his 8-layered paisley wife (probably named Janine) to pay 27 dollars for a photo op with my poems, but this- I hope- is not my point.
Terminology-wise there is a historical precedent for those who commit considerable amounts of time writing poetry for no gain whatsoever, and refer to themselves in the professional sense as “a poet”. These are “crazy people” if you will, or to the layman “koo koo bananers”. I have never been much for labels, so I have yet to let it slow me down.
Only recently though, I had a thought, or rather several. Together they sound something like this: I am in my late 20s, I own several neckties, and I have a beard within which nearly 30 pencils can be suspended indefinitely. It feels like I am an adult, and that’s alright I suppose. But within my world of newly combed hair and 3 forks per meal, I feel like it may be time to take a stab at a career which won’t in turn make me take a stab at my vital organs.
So I’m writing, and for the first time in years, I’m not immediately sharing it. I’m going to try to turn that writing into paper and then force people to buy it. And when they do, they’ll open it up and see the insert photo of the author, inevitably in a thick knit sweater, smoking a pipe (because I will then be a genuine wordsman) and think with mild enthusiasm: ‘I bought him that pipe’.
In that spirit, I’ll be writing about as often as I have been for the last month or two indefinitely, to keep the blog somewhat active, but you’ll all know in your heart of hearts that it’s my third string stuff, or the old timers I let out for a stretch. It has been for a while now to be quite honest. In the meantime I will continue ravenously gorging on jokes, comics, selfies, pictures of old swords, and the work of the many other talented artists here on tumblr, while not giving even half my ass worth of effort herein. In the meantime, feel free to write me, and requests would be very welcome to break up the monotony of writing a series. Who knows, maybe we’ll even turn this into a proper date: a steak dinner and a hope-you-got-home-safe text. Possibly even a rose to die slowly on your desk.
Hopefully one day you’ll pay good money for shitty images like that, but until then, and most importantly as always, thank you for reading. I appreciate it more than you can imagine.