Abby Westover

I just read a bunch of crappy poetry written by another someone who is hailed as a profound writer; a true artist. How did this person reach this dignified status? By putting on their art face, of course. Seem moody. Seem dark. Use obscure words to mask a story that isn’t there. If you can transmit a thin veil of depth, you’re in. Ever cracked shells between your teeth only to discover there’s no seed inside? It’s disappointing, isn’t it? That’s what it’s like, and in both situations you’re left spitting it out with a sort of impatient contempt.

How I grimaced upon reading the words “soul”, “abyss”, “darkness”, and “despair” in the same sentence.

You go to art class when you’re young and fiddle with sequins and glue, glitter and safety scissors. Later on you learn to recognize art as a field wider than pastel drawings. It is for this reason that I get embarrassed upon viewing some people’s cliché productions, which of course outweigh all the original work in the world. Why, when they have so much more to work with, so much empty space to fill, do people recycle expressive staples? It’s a waste of precious resources!

Do you want to say something or do you want to be spoken of? I see the difference being the artist caring about others versus caring about his or herself. If you truly want to change the world, it shows in what you do. If you just want the stamp of elite rank smacked upon your forehead, it shows in what you do. However, that isn’t to say that art must necessarily be made for other people rather than just your own personal satisfaction.

Poetry is one of those realms I have difficulty embracing anyway. It’s a love-hate relationship, really. While I love words to be masterfully matched, I also can’t stand poetry for its expectant, overacted face. Therefore I am picky with my poets and songwriters. I’m cynical of a poem’s worth if it relies on rehashed tactics. I’m highly critical because I know that anyone can pass for a writer as long as they get the technique down. Technique is nothing but a skirt. If you don’t have anything to say, your words don’t hit me. I hate seeing a made-up face with no meaning. I hate to witness the art that oozes that predictable cheese.

As of late this topic is holding my interest because I’ve been dabbling in poetry myself. I used to shudder at the thought because I’ve twisted everything into something funny. Poetry is not so pretty when someone laughs at it, and I’ve always hated my poetry because that someone was me. Being serious always seemed like a good idea at the time, but later I’ve found myself slamming my head on my desk to alleviate the shame of letting that side surface. I don’t know if it shows or not, but I’m gradually growing out of that mindset. It’s tough because those who know me identify me as a comic, especially in the field of writing. I think I’ve always been one-dimensional and I hate that. By no means do I want to suppress the comedy, but I’m feeling a heavy itch to be more straightforward. Funny stuff portrays a lot of emotion, albeit sneakily done. It’s sly to lay the truth on the table and avoid the consequences by distracting your audience with laughter. It’s fun and it’s pain-free. People underestimate the depth of that which is hilarious. However, this is necessary for it to maintain its effectiveness.

It’s been an interesting feat, this poetic venting. It feels good but it looks bad. I’m at a stand-off with art that can probably only be soothed by…uh…more art. It’s a torturous cycle, and a highly spiritual one at that.

While I’m going off about arty things, I might as well throw something else out there: I hate photography. Yeah, I said it. Don’t get me wrong, I like taking pictures. I like looking at pictures. I find immense satisfaction in a crisp, eye-catching photograph. But photography, as an art, is a disheartening endeavor. It’s far too reachable. Everybody’s a photographer. Be in the right place at the right time, adjust your wrist to get the desired angle, fiddle with settings, and tap a button. Congratulations, here’s your badge of artistry. Bonus points for having a cheating camera that makes your pictures look sharp. You can say that it takes artful skill to compose a scene, but is that really the photography part of it? You can say that someone has a talent for manipulating the camera’s effects and settings to alter the catch, but I do that when I’m playing Pokemon. I feel like photography doesn’t have enough room for creation. Those pixilated brushstrokes never change. Despite all this, it’s an addictive hobby I still enjoy.

And henceforth abruptly ends my wandering rant.

If you’re deep, you’re a sad sorry sap. You must be consistently serious. If you saturate your perception with humor, you’re blissfully ignorant and you have nothing valuable to say. Can’t we mix it up a bit, people? Intensity and playfulness are not mutually exclusive.

There’s been a stack of questions I’ve been facing for a few years now. Questions that make me cringe.

“So what are you doing after high school?”

“What are you going to do with your life?”

“What do you want to be?”

They would be easy to answer if I could drone the standard answers. “I’m going to [prestige university] where I plan on majoring in [something useful]. Then I’ll travel to [somewhere awesome] and ultimately end up being a successful hotshot with the perfect spouse and 4 kids in a humble suburban neighborhood.

Guess what I say to people? “I dunno.” That’s not the answer I was trained to give. I was supposed to do well in school, find something that suited me and excel in it, and interact with the world. I was supposed to be designing my personal blueprint long ago.

Needless to say, I’m feeling rather behind right about now. Everyone around me is moving forward and I don’t have anything going for me.

While I feel guilty, I can’t help but also feel like it doesn’t matter. For the most part, “grown-ups” end up all the same. No offense. You’re pretty boring. You work at jobs you hate and you live under a government you hate and you all want to lose 40 pounds and you all want to organize your pantries one of these days and you all can’t wait to retire and die. You know why this turns me off? Because it’s me right now. I feel like I’ve leapt past the filler straight to the bitter old lady stage, and I want to break out of it before it’s too late.

In case anyone’s still wondering what my plans for the future are, I’m going to try to put a good picture in your head. It might be easier to start by telling you what I DON’T want to do with my life.

I don’t want to stay in one place. I don’t want to cling to familiar surroundings. I don’t want a strict schedule. I don’t want to go at a fast pace, but I don’t want to lack energy. I don’t want to isolate myself, but I don’t want to be dependent on others for my happiness. I don’t want to be part of the corporate world. I don’t want quick and easy meals. I don’t want weeknights in front of a TV. I don’t want to be distant from nature. I don’t want a cat. I don’t want a church. I don’t want to be alone, but I don’t want family to take over my life. I don’t want to be too reminded of society, but I want to help make a difference in the world. I don’t want a daily routine at the gym. I don’t want a big house with lots of stuff. I don’t want IKEA furniture. I don’t want cable. Most of all, I don’t want an exact map for my life. I want some surprises.

The list goes on. What I do want is a life full of learning, expression, freedom, and enjoying other people and their work. That’s not special. What kind of idiot would be opposed to that? I can’t think of anything in particular that separates me from other people, although I may be just a bit more resistant to go the conventional path. Right now that means college and getting a degree and being generally awesome. In the future that might mean spending my last days playing Friday night Bingo and mini-golf. Whatever it is, I’ve always wanted something more interesting.

So, it’s hard to give someone a simple answer when they ask me what I’m going to do. They ask that little question and I foresee hundreds of possibilities that add up to a life’s work. The only question that is worse goes like “What are you going to be?” Bug off, I want to be lots of things.