the reluctant poet

thanks to my dad for sending me the new york times article about the new poet laureate:

Kay Ryan, Outsider With Sly Style, Named Poet Laureate

as a fairly peripheral fan of poetry, i was expecting to glance over the article and move on without real involvement (i know -- a reluctance to commit even to news articles. sad ;-)), but i became intrigued by the description of the poet as an outsider and uncomfortable with the exposure that comes with being an artist (not to mention a laureate something-or-other).

hmmm. *that* doesn't strike close to home or anything. i've only struggled with that... mmm... i don't know... always?

at the same time i have this drive to create and communicate, those actions, by their very nature, expose me to the world. and i can't remember a time when i've ever been comfortable with that. (vulnerability = icky!) the digitalization of, well, *everything*, has expanded and intensified the opportunities of and for exposure. there's really no technology "safe zone" -- once you put your shit out there into the digital ether, it's *out there*. your control of it is limited, at best.

while that's true of any work of creation, seems like it's easier to fake yourself out about it in the analog dimension. you can *see* your acts of insulation in action (you can decide where *not* to show your painting and physically enforce the "no photos allowed" rule. you can dodge that critic lurking by the hors d'oeuvres table or pretend you don't hear your film being discussed by the people in line behind you at the grocery store. you can give your unpublished novel only to people you like, watch as they read it, and take it back). in other words, you can *feel* in control of your work, even though you lost control as soon as another person experienced the work.

the internet is another story entirely. not only is it near impossible to prevent unauthorized use of your work, but you can't control the context either. add to that the fact that the presence means pretty much anyone can track down pretty much anything about you, and you can say "hello!" to your new friend, paranoia.

i had a momentus struggle with my inner security guard before creating a substantial web presence for myself and my creations. how much of my work should i put out there and through what channels? (and, yeah, you better believe i registered everything with the copyright peeps) how forthcoming should i be with personally identifying data? i *still* struggle with that one. and yet, here i am, parading around with a personal blog. am i crazy or what? partaking of crackburgers?

here's my rationalization. if you really want to connect with an audience -- heck, if you want to have an audience at all -- you kinda have to put yourself out there. (i know. i'm as surprised as anyone at this revelation, but there you go.) i mean, what's the point of art if (a) it is not an honest expression, and (b) nobody sees it? furthermore, in my case, what's the point of anything i've done or will do, if i don't believe in it? so i take my intentions seriously enough to go from high income to no income, completely overhaul my life, then hide my light under a bushel? gonna be a wussy poser?

i don't think so. when i think of how long it took me to get here, and all the crap (self-induced and otherwise) i've managed to get through, i know i can't be half-assed now. any suckiness that could ensue can't be more sucky than the years of shitty self-esteem, self-doubt, and crushing depression i experienced when *not* pursuing my writing, photography, and design. (how's that for an endorsement?) yes sir, fear of suckiness can kiss my boo-tay. (oh, a buckaroo banzai moment!)

thus, i am putting my shit out here. gonna tell some stories, post some pictures, and otherwise channel the specialness that has been inside my head all this time.

kay ryan, who resisted her poetry-writing self as long as she could, describes her artistic epiphany as a feeling of “an absence of boundaries, an absence of edges, as if my brain could do anything.... finally i can ask the question: can i be a writer?”

her answer to herself was, “do you like it?”

funny, that was my answer too.