Elliot Morgan finally addressed his departure from SourceFed. I wasn't surprised when he cited Childish Gambino as his inspiration for moving on and trying something else.
I, myself, have been thinking a lot on Donald Glover's message. He said something in an interview I saw recently about how we live in a new kind of economy where technology enables us to bypass the middle man and just make things. He said something like "people need to stop asking permission to create".
Those who become our generations well respected creators/artists/etc are not the ones who climbed some kind of ladder and landed some internship. They are the ones who bought a HD camera, or got some freeware screenwriting software and just started making shit, putting it out there - putting themselves out there. It's a DIY generation. The line between consumer and entertainer is growing ever and ever thinner. I see it everywhere now. Everyone I watch on youtube influences each other. They listen to the same music as I do, and are consumers of the same media. They are fans who chose to not ask permission.
We are eachother's entertainment, which means we live in a time, now more than ever, that we can just do - self-publish, self-produce, self-promote. Your peers are creators and consumers too. The only thing holding us back is fear. Fear of failure. Fear of success. Fear of change.
Sometimes I think about these things. I think about people like Donald Glover, John and Hank Green, Elliot Morgan, etc. I think to myself - Where do I fit in all of this? Am I bold enough to say fuck it all, give up on the sure thing that is my factory gig and throw 8 hours a day into writing and performing - being a full time artist and waking up every day genuinely excited about my life?
I think about it. But I don't want to risk it. I don't want to quit and come home to Danielle with nothing but a dream and promise her it's something we can eat, eventually. This job pays bills. It all that's telling the world that I'm anything close to a responsible adult. It's all that's telling me that I'm anything close to a responsible adult.
Why is it not enough? It's enough for plenty of my coworkers. It's enough for most people, actually. Hell, it's easy work and no fiberglass. A rustbelt dreamjob. But It's not enough for me. Why? Am I just selfish? Am I just an entitled asshole twentysomething suffering from special snowflake syndrome? I hate the dichotomy of life. I hate the push and pull of my inner Romantic and Cynic. I hate that no matter how much I type here right now, there is only one logical way for this morning to end, and that's with me driving the hour to Mentor, and me tapping those buttons that symbolize the packing away of my other life, of meaningful work. And the start to the long work day.
It's not you, It's me.
No - you know what, it IS you.
You can't keep coming around like this.
It was okay at first, but we had our fun,
had a couple snowball fights, and hot coco nights
but you and I both know it's run it's course.
In fact, honestly, you overstayed your welcome this time.
What do I mean?
I mean, you're cold, you're bitter, your relentless and pushy.
I couldn't take it anymore.
And when you coming back like this every other week, honestly,
It makes me consider moving.
You're like a stalker.
Oh her? Yeah, that's my new season.
She's nice, warm, and beautiful.
But she's shy,
she's not going to come back out until you leave.
So, you should go.
Look maybe we can try this again
In a year or so - maybe.
Just give me some time.
I don't miss you yet.
Her eyes are so deep set now
that in a certain light
they are just holes in her face
She is so thin now
from the chemotherapy
her skin seems little more than
an empty balloon stretched over her skeleton
and tied off at the scalp,
to keep what’s left of her from falling out
She shakes so bad now
that she needs assistance
to cease the drought
on the jagged landscape of her lips
Now, her days are spent
in an endless sleep
punctuated by a waking sleep
in which she does a lot of staring at walls
That waking sleep, or living nightmare,
is itself punctuated by the occasional friend
come to mourn at the gravemarker
that is her hospital bed
She now has sympathy for the zombie
knowing what it’s like to be dead
and alive at the same time
She thinks, if she had the energy,
she might bite people too
just to remind them
that she’s still here
Shattered beyond repair, deep lines etched on as it broke
I felt it deep within me, almost as bad as a stroke
Like a spiderweb or maybe more like a fractured bone
No it's not my heart, it's just my phone
© Ola Jennifer Efika
No one is any less real
if they are thin as a rail,
skinny, curvy, or morbidly obease.
Short, tall, average, semertical or piccasso-looking,
beaten to high heaven with an ugly stick,
cosmetically altered to look like a barbie doll,
and everyhting in between.
They are all real
insofar as they can expirence the world
just as you do
and thier expirence is no less valid
than anyone elses.
So shut up internet.
I hear a voice of a guitar -
the cords to an Irish jig -
Whisky in the Jar.
I stand there a moment
listening hard and rocking softly.
I am not sure if it’s just the weight of winter
finally melting off my shoulders,
or if there's something deeper,
something spiritual happening here.
I take a nice long breath of the Ohio air,
feeling relief, release, and repair.
He sat there behind the table,
with his glasses sitting on his nose,
and his skin sitting on his bones - both loosely,
the way you’d expect someone to sit
after 75 years of good, but hard, living.
“The trick is-” he said
deliberately pausing to shift the weight of the sentence
toward the upcoming words
“you have to wipe away all the things you don't want to see."
He said this as he scribbled his name
inside my new copy of his old book
smiling in that gentle old man way.
I scampered away like a schoolboy
feeling like an idiot
having rambled at him
in my best impression of a scholar
- like a kid wearing his dad’s oversized suit.
Telling him how well he captures a moment in poetry
like this former US Poet Laureate
wasn’t aware of his talent
and I was somehow delivering the good news.
As I wander the campus,
having escaped my embarrassment
I think back to poem he read tonight
about watching an old couple sharing a sandwich.
It was an ode to love,
an image you can see in any sit down restaurant,
literally anywhere in America.
He focused in on this couple,
in this diner
at this moment
apart from time, like a moving still life
forever framed by his words.
He wiped away the screaming kid
and its overwhelmed mother in the booth to the left,
the table of teenagers playing hooky to their right,
and the underpaid twnetysomething waitress
who clearly didn’t want to be there anyway.
He wiped away all of that distraction
and unearthed this beautiful moment
this pure example of true love-
A sandwich cut from corner to corner
by the shaking hands of a man
whose glasses sit upon his face
and skin upon his bones
all the way you expect an a man to
with woman he’s loved for forty years
with whom he shares everything.
I think about the moments I have missed
the poems never writ
because I was staring at the waitress,
who clearly didn’t want to be there anyway.