Posted by: Artsy Squibbles | September 9, 2006

Sledgehammer: Peter Gabriel get thee that hammer!

This is a copy of a letter that I wrote to Peter Gabriel. What have I got to lose. Nothing. Not a damned thing.

Okay. So I’m taking a risk that this may be some imitation…and not the real aka Musician/aka Once Genesis Musician…Peter Gabriel.

What have I got to lose at this stage of the game. Nothing. Not a damned fuckin’ thing. Really.

I just hope you read and respond to this before I lose the use of my computer/internet/home/room…

Desperate times deface the dream. Losing face with what I schemed and planned, unmanned by others more equipped to deal with cyber styes, and stays, moving into the “she prays” mode. What an ode to bare, to trust to lust and life and limb and heart. What must depart from me, what weights me down that I cannot see what dreams float like mist across the surface, murky moments dragging…my feet like an angel that lost altitude and could not breathe. I could not breathe. I could not breathe. City streets call out with electric rivers above me. Yada/yada/yada…Oh…Ooooh…Broadway…hang up the phones and go home. Wait for him. God will push him thru your front door…find me she cries into the night. I wrote, I delighted in every action, every word and nuance that colored my life for twenty three long years. The fears and cravings covered every possible chance of becoming, and now..I…break…free.

Becoming…come dance with me Peter. Make music with me. Waltz with my words for others to chance upon. Sing with my words the things I can only dream of. Be the frontman to my future…as a lyricist. 

 

That ended here.

A business proposal to make a bit more difference in this world.

I already know that I couldn’t possibly do this by myself. Nor would I want to. Half the pleasure of a journey is the people that you meet along the way. The other half is sharing the struggle, lifting the high beam together, balancing on that tightrope in unison, sync think. As I am meeting you…right here, right now, you are in my world. Inside of my dream to become that lyricist and artist that I was intended to be. So I was caught up in a trap. Yes, a trap. Another story for another time. But I lived through it for whatever reason. Whatever reason that is is yet to be seen.

These are my thoughts for fellow bloggers and readers that show up to this page. I am a fighter. I will not give up. I’ve lost too much to give up.

Is this some crazy last ditch effort. No. This is one of many such efforts to make my point, get heard, find a composer, performer to work with. My work, in essence through me, through my mind, my hands, my heart… is not mine. It belongs to every person it comes into contact with, and as such deserves a complete process from thought , to page, to song, to instrument, to ear for those who will hear, and to heart. The full circle of emotion. Reflection of life as we know it. What else can I do at the moment.  Oh, yeah, I could go clean house, get a day job, and give this up. But I’m going to hang onto this with every last thread of this existence. I could allow myself to wallow in discontent while this planet falls apart, while people die with aids, or broken hearts. I could sit by and watch others blog their hearts out.  And I could join them, or not.

This cyber space world seems to be cut into three sectors. The highly skilled and caring, the highly skilled and shysters, and the not so skilled variety. I am of the not so skilled variety…and I don’t plan on becoming exceptionally talented with a computer. I like my clay and I like my play with words. At the same time I like sharing. I need feed back and communication with others like myself. I do not need to be ripped off, stepped on, or abused any more than the next chump. I do not need to be patronized…but I do need patrons. I do not need to make millions…but I do need an income. 

I write lyrics. I sculpt. I design. I feel and see beyond the right now.  I dream, and create… there is no debating this with anyone. Not even the devil himself.

I use the word dance quite frequently, probably overkill, as a means to express my passion. Dancing takes the entire being into a completely different realm of existence…elevates you, enlivens, generates electrical charges throughout every fiber of your body. When I am sculpting, it’s like a slow waltz, or an easy Sunday afternoon picnic. When I am writing, a jitterbug or salsa seems to be my pace. But when I am completely and utterly absorbed by my work…it’s like making tender love for the very first time but knowing how to do it. All heart…this is when the work comes from the heart and cannot be denied.

And so she cried. And cried.

Is there any body out there from 1983 not willing?

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