Aesthetics, Art, Artist, Bad Ideas, Dance, Drawings, Emotions, Erotic Dance, Literature, Movies and Film, Music, Paintings, Performance Arts, Photography, Poetry, Sculpture, Self-Pity, Theatre, Visual Arts, Writing

Even Artists are Human. Even Artists.

EXECUTIVE SUMMARY:  Paul’s thoughts on the notion that artists feel things more deeply than other folks.

♦♦♦

THE CRITICS ROAR: “Sunstone’s ‘Artists’ post puts me in mind of 1975 when the Spanish dictator Francisco Franco lingered on his death bed for weeks before having the proper decency to exit the world and take his damnable evil with him.  ‘Artists’ is by most common measures a short blog post, but Sunstone nevertheless manages to make it a long one.  You soon find yourself praying for it to end. Praying hard for it to end.” — Gus “Gunning Gus” Johnson, The Blog Critic’s Column, “Leper’s Gulch Gazette”, Leper’s Gulch, Colorado, USA.

Continue reading “Even Artists are Human. Even Artists.”

Alienation From Self, Art, Artist, Authenticity, Being True To Yourself, Creativity, Cultural Traits, Culture, Human Nature, Ideas, Invention, Life, Literature, Memes, New Idea, Passion, Poetry, Quality of Life, Self, Self-determination, Self-Flourishing, Spirituality, Writing

A Flock of Sparrows for Majel: Most Poets Are Some Other Poet

A Flock of Sparrows for Majel

(About a 10 minute read)

“Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.” ― Oscar Wilde

I. Insufferable Snark

Hi, Poet.

Hi, You!

HEY, YOU!

Hey, you enthralled heart,
You passionate devotee of the
Great Gut-Slugging,
Slut-Goddess of Love,
Suffering, Lost Causes, Crushed Dreams,
Forlorn Hopes, Teenage Self-Images,
And Poets!

I BEG YOUR ATTENTION, PLEASE!

Continue reading “A Flock of Sparrows for Majel: Most Poets Are Some Other Poet”

Abortion, Abuse, Aesthetics, Art, Artist, Authenticity, Bad Ideas, Beauty, Being True To Yourself, Dance, Don, Erotic Dance, Free Spirit, Fun, People, Sex, Sexuality, Sexualization, Wisdom

Elle: Nurse by Day, Stripper by Night

(About a 10 minute read)

The first thing I noticed about Elle was that she seemed mysteriously out of place.  She was sitting alone at a table in Shotgun Willies’, watching a young woman dance on one of the stages, and smoking a cigarette.

Because Elle was fully dressed in street clothes, I wasn’t sure what she was doing there?  Was she an erotic dancer?  Then why the clothes?  But if she wasn’t a dancer, what was she doing in an erotic dance club? I spent no little time wondering about her like that before she rose, crossed over to the other side of the room, and strolled through the dressing room door.

Continue reading “Elle: Nurse by Day, Stripper by Night”

Abuse, Adolescence, Adolescent Sexuality, Alienation, Art, Artist, Attached Love, Attachment, Celibacy, Competence, Erotic Love, Ethics, Free Spirit, Horniness, Human Nature, Lovers, People, Political Issues, Quality of Life, Relationships, Self, Self-Knowledge, Sex, Sexuality, Sexualization, Values, Wisdom

I Dumped Her When She Soaked Me With Buckets of Love

(About a 6 minute read)

Ask nearly anyone to sum up adolescence in a few words and most likely one of those words will be “confusing”.  Whatever else it is, that word is just as focused on a key truth as a teenage boy is focused on his friend’s suddenly perky nipples the very first time he espies them by the light of the werewolf moon.

What is often not mentioned, however, is how frequently adolescent confusions turn all manner of relationships into cruel ropes that jerk their victims back when they try to run from a bad situation.  Even blind or unintended abuse is magnified by the fact kids bond so quickly and firmly to each other.

Continue reading “I Dumped Her When She Soaked Me With Buckets of Love”

Art, Artist, Critiques, From Around the Net, Outstanding Bloggers, People, Poetry

Blog Critique: “Lunarpoet”

(About a 1 minute read)

The Lunarpoet Blog, by Matthias

You cannot help but wish this young man well.  Matthias sees himself as a poet who is, “..searching for the magic sparks in the interspaces, between the cracks of reality”, and it is easy to prove that he is a talented conjurer of that magic.

This is no ordinary poetry blog.  Make no mistake about that.  Matthias has dedicated himself to the lifelong pursuit of pushing his talents and skills with words as far as they can go — and he might just one day be a voyager to the stars.

Most of his poetry is blank verse of moderate length and can be read in about a minute each.  But you might want to spend more time than that, savoring his works.  They are good quality poems even when compared to the great, traditional poets of history.  Someday, he might be up there among them himself.

This is solely a matter of personal taste, but I think Matthais and Jane Basil are the two best poets that I’ve come across in my surfing of up to 20 blogs a day.

The Lunarpoet blog is dedicated to poetry and publishes no other material than that.  Though Matthias’ native language is German, all the poems are in English, and all of them are written in accessible language.

 


FULL DISCLOSURE: This review was part of an arrangement between Matthias and I to review each other’s blogs.  His review of my blog can be found here.

Art, Artist, Conservative, Creativity, Cultural Change, Culture, Emotions, Free Spirit, Happiness, Life, Passion, Quality of Life, Religion, Science, Self-Realization, Spirituality, Values

Are You the Artist of Your Own Life?

(About a 7 minute read)

Before you become unnecessarily more alarmed than is usual for folks to be when reading the posts on Café Philos, this post will not be one of those millions of insufferable pieces that are published daily by people hellbent on telling everyone else what they need to be.  I do not aim to give self-important advice here.

No, almost my only goal here is to entertain those of us who — like me — enjoy thinking, and just about anything that gets us thinking.  My other goal, of course, is to get laid by the heiress to a substantial fortune, preferably from her family’s involvement in running a chain of upscale bordellos known for the naughty creativity of their staff.

A boy can dream.

Continue reading “Are You the Artist of Your Own Life?”

Artist, Humor, Poetry

Our Days Were Light as Mouse Farts

(About a 3 minute read)

She was raised up in a family of New World craftsmen
Whose trade of hand-rolling paper towels taught her
Early in life the importance of conscientious precision
And attention to such details as making certain
The rolls were tight but the perforations untorn.
She had shown such a fine sense of duty even as a child
That she’d still been young when the family
Entrusted her with ensuring the towel labels
Ran parallel to each roll’s edges. But a fire
Struck their shop, and within a single winter’s night,
All was lost. Too poor to recover from their tragedy,
The entire family was thrown to the streets
Where they soon shattered into individuals,
Each one homeless and alone.

I met her on the corner of Lincoln and Booth,
An unfortunate intersection if ever there was one,
But somehow suited to her frame of mind and misfortune.
She was dressed in the garb of an organ grinder’s monkey,
For she was street-wise to the fact cops
Never look too close at such innocuous sights.
And since cops are the natural enemies of homeless vagrants,
She wished to be as invisible to them as possible.

As I chatted her up, I felt as if her distressed soul
Was pouring into me from her blue-grey eyes.
I begged her tell me what remaining ghosts of dreams
For herself she still harbored somewhere
Beneath her ridiculous red vest. She was reluctant at first
But under my persistent making faces
She gradually bared her heart and confessed
She wished to become a cosmic dancer with two feet
That walked in beauty on the earth and a spirit that touched the stars.

She refused to believe me at first when I told her
I wanted to help make it all happen if only she would consent
To bear me cross-eyed children, for I have always desired
To be seen by someone as twice the man I really am.
At last she agreed it was a sensible plan, and we married
That very day. Soon, our hearts entwined and kindled,
Our love came roaring to life with a passion uncommon
To folks who are not the artists of their own lives.

At nights she would come to me dressed only in olive oil
Bearing rubber sheets and her free-spirited attitude to life.
We were like teens on prom night inseparable
Because our braces had become generously entangled;
Where she went my heart went too, and the converse as well.
The days passed as lightly as mouse farts, for nothing could burden
Or trouble the towering flames of our hearts.

In the end of course,
We grew old, but we stayed ever young to each other
By refusing the deadly sin of believing we owned one another,
And thus we were never tempted to take for granted each other,
Or see ourselves as anything less than we were on the day that we met.