to the 7th graders

it is a strange and somewhat sad (pathetic?) moment when you stand before a classroom of 7th graders and realize, like the lights snapping on at 5am strangling a winter morning, that you are indeed trying to justify to these children that you are somehow a successful artist. they ask, "why are you a sub if you make music?" "if your art is good, why are you here?" though i've asked myself this question countless times, and concluded that the answer is certainly complex, and that i'm working on it dammit, it serves to shatter one's glassy confidence.

i don't believe for a second that "success" or critical acclaim or any other such thing mandates that one's art is good, and the lack thereof suggests that it is bad, but it remains a difficult thing to swallow nonetheless. i suppose i feel like i could explain it to another adult, but somehow the pathway from point a (making good art) to point b ("success") seems simple, clear, and direct to these young children, which i don't believe it is. i guess what makes me saddest, is that my own ego needs these children to believe that i am good at what i do; that i make good (even great?) art. but then don't we all want others to think we are good at what we most love doing? it was a blurry and choked moment for sure.

then again, it could just be that i turned 33 recently and the movement of time seems to always bring forth such questions. there wasn't this much grey in my beard last year. it could also be that i'm reading a book titled "the ambient century" (a gift from my wife) and find myself stunned by the genius of composers like satie, debussy, and ravel. or it could be that i'm still in a daze from hearing christian kiefer's new (unreleased as of yet) record, amazed that someone i know so well, someone that i love, can make something so brilliant. (not the first time i've felt this about him or others i know). i wonder if i'll ever make anything that i think is that good? and i wonder if christian stands before his students, trying to convince them that he's making great art. i wonder if satie did that? i have after all just discovered that satie made his living most of his life by playing as a cafe and music-hall pianist, and bought 14 of the same velvet suit that he wore each day. this i admire.

and so, keri and i go soon to visit graduate schools where i will send applications to in mere weeks, hoping to study "sound" and multimedia. maybe i've just been trying to come in through the wrong door for a long time. don't we all just want to make something new and unique as artists? how can i do that when eric satie was doing it more than 100 years ago?

who knows? frankly, i'm too tired to write adequately on this at the moment. to the 7th graders: isn't it enough that i love it and could never stop if i tried?

moondog

one of those days where everything feels like a miserable pile of wet paper. i attempt filming which devolves into great frustration and mayhem, if you will. the guitar playing worse. piano hopeless. writing, painting, even reading seem impossible today. perhaps its the moon. when will i learn to just sit on days like this? to stop the brain and this restless soul of mine, and just sit.

brian eno's, music for airports plays. the dishwasher swells. there is a sundog around the moon. moondog.