The Present Situation

I received a note from the bank this morning which is probably a coincidence. Someone who works at my bank, whose first name is Betsy, sent me an application for a life insurance policy. While I'm sure she did not mean this in any threatening way, the experience sparked some thoughts worth mentioning here. My fiction is fiction. My characters are not real people. My stories are not real experiences. With Betsy Beech, I merely wanted to expand her character within the framework of a script by giving her a job at a bank. The customer she abused was not me. In fact, I got the idea from someone else telling me his experience at a bank. And my scripts would not be humorous unless I exaggerated them. I guess that my insecure enemies, professional comedians who fail to make people laugh from the heart, now would poison my readers' minds by casting an analytical, critical eye on my scripts. But eerily, no one analyzed Saturday Night Live when they performed a sketch that bashed their network president and no one analyzed Jay Leno or Ellen Degeneres when they 'performed' poems that bashed themselves. That must have made it much easier for viewers to enjoy my work on TV than it has been for them to enjoy it here in my Blogger account. It's a good thing I'm a musician and I don't have to concern myself with this too much - beyond going to court and seeing that I am compensated for the extensive damage to my image and my reputation as an author by so many dishonest stars. My poetry is quite sacred to me because it will survive the ages more than anything else I do. Look at Homer from 2,500 years ago. He is greater than all our Hollywood stars put together. Can anyone tell me who won the Academy Award for best actor in 1923 off the top of your head? No. And that was less than a century ago. Stars of the present fade with time but great poets are immortal. The more I learn about stars, the less I like Andy Warhol. He was too commercial and too trapped in a present which has turned into the past. I expect his work to lose value over time against the work of his contemporaries like Klaus Oldenburg, Roy Leichenstein and Robert Indiana. A humorous example of how an artist can fade with time can be found in a stained glass window illustration at the local Carnegie Center. At the time of the construction of this building in 1905, a poet named Spenser was thought fit to stand shoulder to shoulder with Shakespeare and Milton - or was it Chaucer? Now I doubt anyone but a literature major would know who Spenser was, while almost everyone has heard of Shakespeare and Milton. I see the theft of my poetry as an attack on my immortality. I see it as a deeply spiritual offense. But the fools who stole it and committed fraud with it don't need to worry about their immortality now. They will ever be remembered as spoiled celebrities and as hideous frauds. On another note, my figure of averaging eight hours a day in my posts takes into account the dozens of hours I pour into the composing and recording of individual songs over short periods. For instance, I composed and recorded my most recent song, Denial, in forty hours over two days. That's a whole week's work in two days, which raises my average daily output considerably. I wonder when this evil entertainment business is going to finally prove to me that it rewards hard work like this instead of punishing it. 3:25 pm - With respect to the 'missing page' in my Evolver blog entitled An Important Lesson, don't worry about it. I think I either changed the title to that or turned it into another post. But out of curiosity, I will check it against my offline record to make sure no one is interfering with me. You can't blame me for being a little paranoid about it. 6:42 pm. Ah, yes. That was the one I decided to erase in favor of Bang On Accurate, which is much more positive. I have a certain standard for my posts which I can not always rise to. It's a shame that when an artist voluntarily erases his own work to comply with his standard of quality, a bunch of jackasses are allowed to pounce on him and make up stories about it. We should execute these goofs. They hurt everyone, not just me.
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