Tag Archive | "prose"

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the artist

Posted on 03 March 2001 by Daniel Dessinger

it is sad to think of what we as appreciators of art have become. an essential link has been lost... the artist.

if this book is ever found at some later date when i have received some kind of recognition for writing, it is likely that several of the poem-like entries will be removed and considered on their own. it is this very separation/removal/picking apart of my work that destroys its very organic nature. art, in and of itself, is like a window, or a light, intended to reveal something else. art is a tool. it has been made out of things, the sum total of which are arranged to resemble something else. art does not stand on its own as Heidegger supposed. the art can never be separated from the artist and still retain its sum total of meaning and purpose. art only has value because its value is based on or derives from the value of the artist. art is the artist's expression. all that is made artistically gives evidence of the artistic passion and talent of its maker. without the artist you have no art.

without the meaning which resides in the being of the artist, the art expresses nothing and in fact does not even exist. even if the art is expressing its creator's feeling or belief that there is no meaning, that very idea of "no meaning" becomes the meaning of the art. what is my point? my point is that my writing and any other form of art i may produce is to be considered art only because i made it. it is my art because it reveals me. i said earlier that we as "appreciators" of art are miserable people because we prefer to accept the art as independent and separate from the artist. things get to be elevated above people, at least in some sense. we want to separate the art from the artist for several reasons, not the least of which is our fear of losing precious art because it was created by depraved, "bad" or undesirable people.

if art is linked to its artist, then a bad person would presumably create bad art. what is the real issue here? what is the problem? could it be that we are willing to discard the people in a desperate attempt to retain the thing? we don't mind writing some person off as immoral or pagan. we just don't want to lose any artistic contribution if it has found favor in our sight. this situation is not actually my complaint. my complaint is that i will not accept future readers discarding whatever they choose of my work because it does not fit their definition of art. take it all, or don't take it at all. it's that simple. i don't want to be appreciated in part. i would rather be unknown, mostly because i already am. anonymity is not so bad. misrepresentation and misquotation, however, are unforgivable.

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reach

Posted on 04 February 2001 by Daniel Dessinger

reach out. grasp that sensation again. the lure of inspiration. the heavy lungs. brain tingling. mind sharp. images crisp. thoughts clear. retreating from all contact with reality to express the brilliance of solitude. only in isolation do the perfect words come. how do they know? at the point when everything seen could either be real or synthetic, and it wouldn't matter. tomorrow will be plain again. not so bad. not so exciting. a painful tradeoff. sanity for boredom. take one and accept the other. a soulish gurgle spurts out resistance to normalcy. "this is my life...and it's no longer worth writing about." once the noise has ceased. the voices gone. the stillness grows. the nakedness looms. exposure...so this is who i am. now that my thoughts are my own...who am i? no one telling me what to think or believe or desire. no one telling me who i am or who i should be. as the noises quiet, i am alone. a solitude more expansive than previously imagined. the comfort of propaganda has been stolen. my vices abandoned. what to do...what to do. it could be more than i ever pictured because i couldn't see past the cloud. the wispy smoke. the pounding drums. the whining guitars. the brainwashing infomercials. put it all aside. quiet. or maybe some Bach. either way, it is a brave new world to conquer. and i am just beginning.

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the rarest flower

Posted on 23 December 2000 by Daniel Dessinger

twilight.

the rarest flower stands defiantly despite the endless drought.

she, of ravishing elegance

beyond words of description and without comparison

she drinks the sweet dew of evening

she bathes the cracked and dusty land with her tears

bluish hues and tones of red adorn her desert palace

permeating her soul with comfort and warmth

once more she weeps in ecstasy at the beauty of isolation

the hills mourn and stars cry out

with awe, she groans from her overflowing heart

though she sighs every so softly

she need not worry of expressing her desire

her existence, her inescapable beauty

nourishes, satiates, satisfies the land

what once was weary now knows no suffering

but for the lack of her smile

this rarest flower

fresh, unfaded, and flourishing.

written by Daniel Dessinger to Heather Alger

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The Cycle

Posted on 15 October 1999 by Daniel Dessinger

the cycle is now complete. it seems that life demands the cycle. everything that begins somehow winds back around until it ends at the beginning. where i was once hurt. i have hurt another. and she will likely do the same to someone else. i did not know of her pain until i heard it in that song. and it said more than i could bear to hear. it was beautiful and it was tragic. it was beautiful because it was tragic. and somehow i managed to feel nothing. nothing but the regret that i felt nothing. alone with the irony of it all playing over and over in my head. where once i felt so vulnerable and dependent on a girl to stay alive. i now see how i have done the same to another. the same as was done to me. and what of all the twisting emotions? where did all the heartbreak go? it was frozen hard so long ago. when it began to snow. to this day i cannot fathom why. i let her mean so much to me. and how different it feels. to try to love today. the past cannot be revived. for this i am grateful. but lingering memories remind me how much it used to cost. to be so close. and now so hollow. like me somehow. you never forget the first. and it stays with you until your last. and like the song said. i could try to love. but i'm still damaged.

written by Daniel Dessinger October 15, 1999

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everything is utterly futile

Posted on 09 October 1999 by Daniel Dessinger

everything is utterly futile and meaningless. can i ever express what i feel? there are so many people who need to be shown love. so many that need a good friend. so many that could use a good example. but do i care? do i REALLY care? all of us live our lives looking to impress someone. to selfishly require affection. to feel accepted and valued. we all want to feel valuable. we all want to be special. that is what drives me. to show however much of myself that is necessary so someone will think that i am the greatest. so i hide this and reveal that. whatever it takes to get the result i want. but it never lasts. i can see right through the shit. in myself and others. it's so hard to keep running when i know i am a fake. i can't stand it. only a matter of time before i cannot bear to be fake anylonger. when there are no more games to play with others' emotions. and i'm still not happy. and i still won't submit. what is left but torture? this is an honest question. i want to know. none of it matters. it never has. who cares if i'm famous, respected, popular, wealthy? i could care less. but if the truth is not faced. what else is there to embrace? honestly, it is either one or the other.

written by Daniel Dessinger October 10, 1999

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i see you

Posted on 05 October 1999 by Daniel Dessinger

i see you. lost in a sea of people. looking at the ground. avoiding eye contact. yet watching everything as each new day unfolds. feeling so alone. so different from the rest. hoping desperately that no one will notice you as you really are. doing your best to blend. you hide behind a face you think they want to see. or at least are comfortable seeing. they seem so satisfied with their lack of reality. as you try not to rock the boat. wondering if they could ever possibly feel as you do. maybe as they lie down to sleep at night. when there is no one around to impress. maybe then they feel the same.

day in and day out, you watch the show. as one person tries to convice another he is happy. it seems that to admit the truth is unthinkable and unforgivable. for maybe if just one person were to expose his or her emptiness, the sky would break and stars come crashing down. so you remain silent. you burn to pour out all that churns inside. but no. they couldn't handle it, you tell yourself. and even if you tried, would you be able to express so much? insecurity digs a deep channel in you, as you scold yourself for not playing the game as well as they do. for they seem so convinced that this petty stuff is what life is all about. and so you remain distant. an impassable gulf between you and them. in this you are miserable. yet in this you feel safe. lost in a sea of people. looking at the ground. avoiding eye contact. day in, and day out.

Daniel Dessinger
October 5, 1999

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Prose in the Key of Pearl Jam

Posted on 19 May 1999 by Daniel Dessinger

what should i say? what is left to feel or do that's not already been? so i will stay again. here i sit and smoke as i watch the world pass by. do i lie? if there's any more to this open my eyes. do you sympathize? getting older, somehow bolder, and i want to cry. can i find something new? something that won't fade away and that i cannot lose. where will i find a better place? somewhere i won't need to hide my face. from my judge and jurors. someone needs to tell them all i won't be shamed again. for what it's worth. i am much stronger now. now that years have passed me by and the have shown me how...how to be a friend. even if it breaks my heart and sears my soul i will not break this vow... to be a friend. been through hell and touched the flames and i came back again. somewhat wiser now. we're not part of the crowd. we've worked so hard i could not be more proud. do i make sense? or am i just too tense? how could it be that we could walk this fence? have you forgotten how...to just submit? have you kept on trying or did you just quit? coudl this be wrong? where do we belong? we just might find some meaning in a simple song. can we choose where to go or did we take too long? can i pour out this heart? would it be wasted or maybe just a start? would you like to know... the whole damned truth or maybe just a part? well where should i start? would you listen or would it bee too hard? long time ago. the mem'ries play like an old forgotten picture show. but i still don't know. oh where did all the smiling children go?

written by Daniel Dessinger May 1999Â

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