This is the note we got next to the parking lot by my office after the tree trimmer guys broke the fence.
If you can’t read it, here’s what it says:
“FUCK,” one side says. “Spend a buck,” which incidentally rhymes with fuck, “and fix what you BROKE!!!”
The other side says, “YOU.” A little artistic actually, to break it up like that. Then underneath, “Ass hole.”
So, to put it together in one happy phrase:
“FUCK YOU! Spend a buck and fix what you BROKE!!! Ass hole!”
I say, let’s tear down the whole damn fence. Maybe then we’ll actually be able to have a real conversation rather than resorting to juvenile notes. Today the sign was painted over, whiting out the obsenities. I have very little time for people who choose to react in this hostile way. Apparently, our landlord has even less.
There are right ways to handle conflict, and there are wrong ways. To borrow a line from Top Gun, “We show it as an example of what not to do. Next.”
I sent my dad the link to Seth’s reaction to my blog (see Thanks Seth). Here is his reaction:
Hey Joe,I read the comments of Seth Barnes. Honestly, I don’t have time to blog or even to read blogs. But I read this and his post of your comments. I’ve been praying for you Son… and today on the way to the office I had this idea that what you are likely to become is totally not like what I would expect or pick for you.
I am reminded of great artists and how they build a body of work and at the time they are doing the work, much of it trivial and wasted, a moment comes and the abstract and small becomes something incredible. We all build this body of work and only a few moments really stand out as being special. But I like the way you are preparing; your blog is complex, thoughtful and sincere. You have good intellectual gifts and an emotional touch that helps you connect. I am proud of you son.
I like Seth Barnes’ comments about the artist and agree. I was discouraged as a young singer because so few wanted to hear me sing; I rarely felt encouraged. Nowhere has this been truer than at church. But an artist must do the right to left thing… it is an imperative, rather than a choice (”I have to write!”), and I think and what separates an artist from an amateur. I could write on and on here.
I’m a fan…
Love,
Dad
It’s hard to be in the world. These words are Eucharist to me Dad, sustenance for the long race ahead.
Thanks for being a fan.
Set Barnes feautured me on his blog today. I respect Seth and his writing, and I’m thrilled to now be part of his blog.
He says, “I specialize in the art of taking young people who are waking up to the kingdom, young people who have seeds of greatness in them, and launching them like cannon balls out into a world where that greatness can be nourished. Joe fits the profile well.”
Thanks Seth!
Driving to a see a play,
With friends,
Eating sunflower seeds,
While listening to Billy Collins’
Class-clown poetry.
It is a hot day,
And I can’t think
Of a better way to spend it.
Music, and all Art, is a conversation. In the act of creation, an artist puts their time, energy, and experience into a medium. Creating Art is a process of externalizing something internal.
Art cannot exist in a vacuum, though, and without minds open to receiving it, Art will cease to be Art. That is because it’s purpose is to lead others to a new way of looking at the world, at reality, at Truth. And yes, it’s always a new way of looking. Even if the subject has been done a thousand times in the same style, true Art makes all things new.
This places a great responsibility on you, the audience. If an artist’s role is externalizing the internal, the audiences burden is to internalize the external. Sometimes this is easy. Sometimes music is automatically transferred by some pagan magic from our ears to our feet and hands (and booties), and without forethought we are dancing.
Other times it takes much more work. A poem might have to be studied, the words translated into images in our heads, and all of a sudden we are there, witnessing the event, almost breathless. Sometimes it takes something else. A painting we pass every day but never really see, suddenly becomes vivid in our thoughts and we are constantly reminded of it.
But if Art is not internalized, if it doesn’t take shape in our souls, then it hasn’t acheived it’s purpose, and it no longer is Art. It has become art, possessing none of the divine power of it’s mystical cousin. It is dead.
Whose fault is this death? Whose hands are stained with blood? The answer is easy. It is yours. It is mine. The artist’s and the audience’s. Through our combined laziness–or hurry, which is the ultimate laziness–we, together, have killed Art.
If you, the audience, are not willing to get your hands dirty and engage with my Art, and if I, the artist, am not ready to put all of myself into it, then we should both leave. We have no business being here at all.
This is not a professional recorded song by any means. I wanted to give those of you that haven’t heard me live the chance to listen to one of my songs. Keep in mind it’s not a finished product but something to give you an idea of what the song is about.
Thanks to Brett Stuvland for the back up vocals. Check out Brett’s blog here.
If you want
A sexy song to dance to
Or something simple
To drown your thoughts in pleasure,
You won’t find that here.
I am
A word of castigation,
A phrase of joy ,
A line of woe,
A song to deliver us.
Oh, what silly times.
Oh, what silly times.
Oh, what silly times.
We’re under the highways of hell,
And over his freeways we go,
And over his bridges,
These roads won’t last long.
Traveling on these lonely roads.
At least we’ll have
Some stories to tell.
I don’t know the next line, Oh no!
I don’t know the next line, Oh no!
I still don’t know…
These roads won’t last long…
I still don’t know!
We’re under the highways of hell,
And over his kingdom we go!
And over his bridges.
These roads won’t last long!
Oh no!
I don’t know the next line, Oh no.
I don’t know the next line, Oh no.
I still don’t know…
These roads won’t last long…
I still don’t know.
At least we’ll have
Some stories to tell.
I recently changed my categories to better reflect the content on this site. I know they’re a little narcissistic. I do care about more people than myself, but at least for now, this blog is about me and my identity. For the confused, here the definitions of each category.
- Joe Bunting the Musician contains posts about songwriting, singing, playing shows, and music marketing.
- The Monk. I’m not a monk (obviously), but this category explores the metaphysical aspect of my music and my life.
- The Jerk is where the Please Leave if… series resides. This is a silly category for a silly series. I hope those of you apt to judge will realize this before you leave.
- In The Teacher, I have placed anything that resembles pedantry (def: ostentatious or insulting display of learning…). It’s where this will go because I’m teaching you about my blog. Aren’t I condescending.
- The Strange is where I put everything that is silly, weird, or uncatogorizable. So far, this post is behaving very sillily so it might show up there, too.
- The Artist delves into the transcendent plane of existence of the artist, art, and the question of whether I am really an artist or just a crappy musician.
- The Curator is where I post things that I like.
- I put news and thoughts about my friends in The Amigo.
- The Road Rager deserves a post of it’s own because it has to do both with driving and what “the road” means to me in my music and my life, a complicated symbol and metaphor that we won’t go into here.
- I talk about money in The Guy Who Has to Pay Rent or Get Sent to Jail.
- The Poet is home to some of my hacks at poetry.
- The Sinner is my public confession booth.
Clear? Questions?
PS I decided to put this post in every category since it talks about each one. But Blogger wouldn’t let me. Sad.
If you can’t read it, here’s what it says:
