(A Guide for Accidental Creators)
PRINCIPLE 1: YOU ARE A BROKEN RADIO
(static is your superpower)
1. Stop claiming authorship.
2. Your only job is to stay tuned.
3. If the signal fades, pretend it's art.
A MAN WHO NEVER WANTED TO BE GOOD
(…yet everything he touched turned out as if it were.)
He never wished for goodness.
Nor excellence.
Nor to be an example.
He only wanted
to be left alone
with his music
that had no notes.
People called him: “Your talent.”
He looked at his hands
as if hearing, for the first time,
that something like that
could even happen
by chance.
He never practiced.
He never learned.
He simply did what
kept him restless
the moment he stopped.
And everything he made
unfolded as though someone
already knew
what the world lacked
and channeled it
through him.
He was not a gift.
He was a receiver.
And everything that came
flowed through him
like electricity
that asks no permission
to shine.
Margin notes:
~~genius~~ wrong number
[doodle: antenna made of bones]
"the louder you deny it,
the clearer they hear"
PRINCIPLE 2: FAIL LIKE YOU MEAN IT
(mistakes are your co-authors)
1. Perfection is bad reception.
2. Your worst idea is someone's epiphany.
3. When lost, declare it jazz.
EFFORTLESS TOUCH
(he didn’t study. it was a memory of things never heard.)
He didn’t know what he was doing.
But when he touched clay
the clay already knew
what it wanted to be.
He didn’t draw.
He just slid his finger
as if recalling
something never told.
People admired him.
They asked:
“Where did you learn?”
He lied:
“On the road.”
While thinking:
“In dreams. Or another life.”
Each touch as
not his own.
As if he’d been granted
innate permission to be good.
And he was only
afraid
because who knows
what else these hands
could conjure
before he
managed to say
he wasn’t ready?
Margin notes:
"see: that time you spilled ink
and they called it 'abstract'"
[coffee stain artfully placed]
PRINCIPLE 3: GHOSTWRITERS EXIST
(and they're using your hands)
1. The best lines arrive uninvited.
2. Never thank them - they'll leave.
3. Sign with a question mark.
THE SONG I NEVER WROTE
(but I read it to people, and they wept.)
It was already there
before me.
I didn’t seek it.
I didn’t even feel it
when it came.
I only spoke
and people hushed.
Not because of me.
Because of something
they recognized
that I didn’t know
I carried.
I didn’t write it down.
I didn’t compose it.
I didn’t even hear
how it sounded
when I spoke it aloud.
I only watched
someone in the front row
begin to cry,
as if I’d retold
a dream
that had no words.
They asked:
“How did you write that?”
I wanted to say:
“I didn’t.”
But I just nodded,
because I didn’t know
how to explain
that sometimes
the deepest song
arrives uninvited,
and you serve it
with your heart anyway.
Margin notes:
"this page intentionally
left haunted"
[childish drawing of a ghost]
PRINCIPLE 4: LEAD BY GETTING LOST
(maps are for the prepared)
1. Say "I don't know" like it's sacred.
2. Your doubts are better compasses.
3. Bring snacks - revolutions get hungry.
AN EXCUSE THAT BECAME AN INVITATION
(I said “I don’t know.” They heard: “Let’s go.”)
I said: “I don’t know.”
And thought
it would be the end.
But they heard:
“Let’s go.”
I withdrew
into silence,
and they heard
a map there.
I wanted
to disappear.
But they followed me.
I wasn’t a leader.
I wasn’t confident.
I was simply
a voice that sounded
like courage
echoing
from a voice broken enough.
Every excuse I made
became someone’s motivation.
Every doubt I voiced
became proof
there was a way.
I only wanted
not to be responsible.
But the words I spoke
carelessly
they wrote
on their banners.
And now,
when they ask me:
“How did it start?”
I say:
“I didn’t.
I just
gave up
the loudest.”
Margin notes:
"PS: the 'movement' you started
was just you looking
for the bathroom"
APPENDIX: HOW TO DISAPPEAR
(while becoming more visible)
1. Make something honest.
2. Leave it on the 7:15 train.
3. Change your name to "N/A".
4. Repeat until the work eclipses you.
Stamp:
RETURN TO NOBODY
if found, keep walking
[blank except for:]
handwritten in fading pencil:
"this manifesto works best
when you pretend
you didn't read it"
[tiny doodle of an empty chair]