Fishbowler

I make art in strange places and blog about it.

2 Poems: ‘This Is Not a Journal’ & ‘From My Little Art Desk’

This Is Not A Journal

so I won’t get into it

but frustrations…

I want to be alone sometimes

now, for instance.

Nothing can cure this

but being alone.

Everything is so much easier

when I’m just alone.

I think of women:

I want to be alone.

Men?

I don’t think of them.

But these women though

they are the genesis

of stress.

They are where stress comes from.

Women ARE stress.

“Are you mad at me?”

If I say yes, it’s on me;

if I say no, it’s on me;

either way I pay.

Imagine a tangle

black sticky fatal tangle

like from a swamp

or an alien trap.

THAT’S a woman.

I want to be alone on Christmas day, even

because with me

there’s nothing to it.

To deal with anyone right now

that’s more than I deserve to deal with

and take care of

and coddle.

That’s more than I want.

But this woman

who I call

an alien swamp trap

she’s free to say the same of me:

never satisfied

always complicating

so it’s not about the battle of

the sexes

it’s not about “the others”

it’s just the way

it is

for someone like me,

an INTP

I hate to bring an acronym into it

like clinical cyborg

but this is it

I guess

so simple

analysis shows

what I am, statistically,

and who I am

and how I came to be

I could choose this to be

mad about,

probably safer,

because dehumanization

will never ask

“Are you mad at me?”

I’ll end this riff

Christmas day 2013

but I hope you find it funny,

the frustration of man

(and woman)

because we’re only human

and I know this ’cause

I see our specie

right here

on the categorical tree

see?

just above chimpanzee.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

From My Little Artist Desk

From my little desk at the back of the living room

quietly drawing army guys in battles

between the crosses and the stars

with TV crews on the sidelines

reporting on the malay

and on thru the schooling years

when I refused to take art in middle school

because I knew better

I didn’t want to become

programmed

& up thru high school

where I made my art teacher cry once

with my snotty attitude

Mr. Platt I liked better

he was laid back

& would give passes during classes

(I got a blow job once on the way to Dairy Queen)

and the murals I painted

in hallways

yearbooks my art graced

and into college

when I took all the prerequisites

up until Life Drawing

which was exciting

but the model was

too skinny

and didn’t strip down

and then I quit

to start my airbrush shop

in Daytona

with my best friend

we lined up hurricane insurance

but it all fell through

and then at 23

I decided

officially

I’d be an artist

no matter what

because I knew

it would be

an uphill, lifelong struggle

but I knew

this was me

Back to college

this time in Tempe

graphic design

a logical choice

all the while still painting

furiously

and that feeling

back then

in that most productive period

the feeling that

I’m doing this

and I’m in it

for the long haul

and this was just the

beginning

I’m proud that I could see it then

the revelation

that this would never end

And then

a gallery

perspective flipped

now as the middle man

to see

what we,

these artists,

were like to deal for

but mostly a view

of this job, this career

this is an industry

with tricks of the trade

which amount to selling high ticket luxury items

to the upper middle class

and intellectuals

The floor got ripped out from under me

How noble, really

was this shit?

To be an artist

granted, an American,

but still an artist

it had a veneer

even here

that doesn’t hold up

when you work on

pricing for the market

I looked back to the college years

when my appetite for knowledge

had expanded:

the stories from biographies

on artists

I revered

life saving

these stories

in getting to know artists

before me

gave me belonging

and recognition of the fact

that these were weirdos

like me

Ultimate heroes

to rise from the ranks

with their name in lights

and this all came back

to me:

it’s an ego stroking

the whole thing

Comfort food

And so then it was

that fishbowling

came into being,

a study in how comforts

effected my art

I became a wanderer,

a Saint Francis in mobility

renouncing all my stuff

and in that same timeframe

we started NadaDada

and it was in that

that I glimpsed again

what it meant to be

an artist again

in regard to community

and in just what capacity

the journey

resembles

nobility

We belong to a lineage

our creative output

is our family,

true, but those who come

after us

the creative makers

who have followed our lead

have a need

for the example we share

in finding

own power

This is the gift we give:

sharing the keys

to self empower

because this is a powerful thing

we do

to reflect and examine

through the power of passion

which is something

so nothing

so unrealized

and so unharnessed

in most

This power–passion–is dormant

in every moment

from within every point

art

it can be made

and should

this for multiple reasons

but to enrich

We take this energy

and we make it work for us

Thus

is the method

of transubstantiation

in the alchemist,

the artist,

and along the way

illumination.

both poems by Chad Sorg, 2013

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