Notes From The Artist (aka The Poet)

The world is a fuckhole right now. Scratch that, it’s always been a fuckhole—we’re just now starting to realize it. That’s why I hang out in the desert, man. It cleanses my brain. Cleanses me of all that concrete. Of all that “FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!” Of all that “GET IT THROUGH YOUR THICK FUCKING SKULL, I DON’T LOVE YOU NO MORE, MAN! I LOVE YOUR BROTHER! HE’S BETTER LOOKING THAN YOU! HE’S GOT A BIGGER DICK THAN YOU! HE’S FUNNIER THAN YOU! OH YEAH, A LOT FUNNIER THAN YOU! WHY, JUST THE OTHER DAY HE TOLD ME THIS JOKE ABOUT A PEDOPHILE AND A PRIEST WALKING INTO A BAR! I’M NOT GOING TO EVEN TRY AND RETELL IT, BECAUSE I WOULDN’T DO IT JUSTICE, BUT THE JOKE ROCKED MY GIGGLE METER THE MOST! NOW, PACK YOUR GARBAGE CLOTHES AND GET OUT OF MY LOFT, DIRTFACE!”

Yeah, you need to cleanse that junk out of your veins. ’Cause make no mistake, it’s junk. And just like junk, when you get that junk in your junky bloodstream you feel real junky funky. Junky funky all night long. Actually, to tell the truth, and I don’t mean to pitch something here, but the Junky Funky is the name of a new dance I made up. It’s sure to be sweeping the nation real soon. All the hip-hoppers are gonna hop to it. You just wait and see. How do you do it? I thought you’d never ask. Well…

1. Take your right leg and cross it over your left leg.
2. Bend your left leg almost like you’re going to kick.
3. Instead of kicking forward, kick back.
4. Raise up your hands to the sky, like you’re about to pray.
5. Extend your middle fingers like you’re flippin’ off the clouds.
6. Twist once.
7. Turn twice.
8. Jump four times.
9. Stop, drop, and roll like you were on fire. (I guess in a way you are on fire. On fire with funk.)
10. Jump back up.
11. Twist two more times.
12. Blink seven times.
13. Poke your privates.
14. WHAM! You got a good case of the Junky Funky!

Anyway, back to the desert. Yeah, man, when I’m in that desert, I’m whole. I get on that nature trip and I just see shit that most people thought they’d never see—that most people don’t never want to see. The shit that’s inside. The shit that’s inside, but now it’s outside. And as the inside goes outside, the outside goes inside, and you take that ride. That magic inside-outside ride on that sideways tide. And you see the world for what it is.

You see, the world’s a person, man. Might as well be named George. Here’s a question. What would you do if you met George on the street? What would you say to George? (Little reminder here: George is the name I’m using for the world. So when I address George I’m really addressing the world. Just want to make sure that’s clear. Hope it’s not too confusing.) Wonder what I’d say if I ever met George. It would probably go a little something like this:

The Artist (aka the Poet) walks the urban streets. He’s thinking while he walks, which is one of his favorite things to do. All of a sudden he runs into an old friend (or enemy, depending on the day), George (aka the world). George is a big, fat, sweaty scum pig with dark circles under his eyes. He has more hair on the back of his neck than most people have on their heads. His beard is filled with shards of metal from old tin cans, and he wears earrings made out of dirty condoms. The Artist (aka the Poet) at first pretends that he doesn’t see George, but George sees the Artist (aka the Poet), and the Artist (aka the Poet) has no choice but to say hello to George.

THE ARTIST (AKA THE POET): Oh, hi George.
GEORGE (AKA THE WORLD): Hi, the Artist (aka the Poet). How’s it going?

THE ARTIST (AKA THE POET): Fine.
GEORGE (AKA THE WORLD): Whoa! Hold up. Are you mad at me?

THE ARTIST (AKA THE POET): No. Why would I be mad at you?
GEORGE (AKA THE WORLD): I don’t know. You just seem like you’re mad at me.

THE ARTIST (AKA THE POET): Well, I’m not mad at you, George.
GEORGE (AKA THE WORLD): I really feel like you’re mad. You got a mad tone.

THE ARTIST (AKA THE POET): George, how many times do I have to tell you? Don’t read too much into my tone. Sometimes my tone just comes across more aggressive than I mean it to. I have a confusing tone.
GEORGE (AKA THE WORLD): Whoa. You basically just yelled at me.

THE ARTIST (AKA THE POET): What?! No, I didn’t!
GEORGE (AKA THE WORLD): Yes, you did.

THE ARTIST (AKA THE POET): No, I didn’t, George. Believe me, when I yell at you you’ll know it.
GEORGE (AKA THE WORLD): Oh, will I?

THE ARTIST (AKA THE POET): Yes, you will.
GEORGE (AKA THE WORLD): All right. Sorry, I guess I’m a bit sensitive lately.

THE ARTIST (AKA THE POET): I should say so.
GEORGE (AKA THE WORLD): Well, it was good seeing you, the Artist (aka the Poet).

THE ARTIST (AKA THE POET): Good seeing you too, George. Say hi to Natalie (aka Mars).

You see, man? That’s what I’m talking about. The world don’t give a fuck about me, and I don’t give a fuck about the world. It’s lying to me. I’m lying to it. We’re all just gears in one big lie machine. But I’ll tell you this—us gears gotta stop turnin’. ’Cause if enough of us stop, the machine’ll break down. Now, I know what you’re asking. What’ll happen when the machine breaks down? Good question. Real good question. Those are the kinds of questions you should be asking. I’m proud of you. Unfortunately I don’t have an answer, though. No one does. We’re all stuck in one giant collective “who knows.” But you know what? I’ll take a “who knows” over a “who gives a shit” any day.

Sincerely,
The Artist (aka the Poet)