9.27.2011

Makers

My writing relies heavily on metaphor and the best ideas are lifted from Nietzsche. My songs are rigidly structured, live only in the major scale, and played in 4/4 because I don't understand other time signatures. Acting is a process of indication rather than honest reaction. On stage, my improvisation is trapped in an intellectual void that chokes off discovery and imagination. My jokes all sound written. My furniture looks like an industrial Ikea train wreck.

I'm fascinated by people who make things. They see a void in the world and they fill it, the way my father finds a home for stray objects in our home. From an unassuming and impulsive place, they can't help themselves. Suddenly the world is filled with things: buildings, art, records, books.

The medium is less important than the process.

Though I'm not particularly good at making things, I do it. Not entirely sure why. It doesn't pay, carries little social currency, and provides little in the way of lasting satisfaction. Though, I always seem to be smiling when I finish a project. Making things is hard. It's exhausting. The notion that one has something to contribute that the world hasn't seen is equal parts boldness and folly. Still, the world is undeterred. The makers rarely seem to notice or care.

I'm in love with people who make things. I want to be one of them.

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