Youse

The caddie to-do wasn’t ever much more
than an anglerfishworth of gender trappings;
our souls’ faint inner-shirkings
beg to interrupt the rat race formula
so conveniently laid out for us.

Failure is a foregone conclusion
when you stack the chips a certain way.
Of course, we all must stray
from our internal clocks

for the convenience of our plutocratic overlords.
Demean yourself so you can put food on the table,
then you’ll be the richest of us all, I tells ya.

Then maybe one day you can afford
to take a ride on the merry-go-round
of solid gold. Only one ride though,
are you crazy? We’re not running a charity here.

Or perhaps it would be easier to imagine that we are,
if that’ll help you sleep at night. Anything
to shut youse up for a couple hours, you’re exhausting.
Now go play with the TV in the other room for a while,
and try not to get electrocuted like last time.

Strange New World

Hey folks, hope you’re all doing well in this strange new world we inhabit. This is a checking-in kind of post, where I spill my guts about my creative progress.

I suppose it would have been a good idea to make some kind of goal for this year, but that all flew out the window around these parts in about mid-March. My enthusiasm for the craft suffered, which is funny when you consider that I was doing less to occupy myself than ever before (which you’d think would contribute to a more robust oeuvre, but I ended up atrophying more than anything).

I’ve had plenty of times in the past where I’ve fallen into a ravine of amotivational behavior, and this here pandemic was all I needed to justify my paltry output.

That all being said, I’ve decided to retroactively give myself a goal to accomplish–one that’s already been accomplished! Wow, I did it!

The goal I’d just concocted is/was to reach 1,031 total posts by Halloween, 10/31/2020. Yes, I’m aware that this dating style is backwards for some of you, but it was just too convenient not to use.

The main takeaway from my creative career has been to stop seeking significance in every little detail of every little thing. Of course you can extrapolate and discover the innate meaning of the universe in pretty much anything, but those things need to be brought to life in order for you and others to dissect it in such an insane manner. My issue has always resembled getting bogged down in the significance of the idea/piece before actually composing it (sometimes without even jotting down a single word, losing it forever).

That makes for a nice segue into my new-ish passion of drawing! I’ve posted 15 drawings (as of this post) in the past 3-4 weeks, which has really been a nice cushion for helping me to exploit the algorithms.

Aside: I’ve always been aware of the power of algorithmic computing, but I’ve chosen to ignore it because I’m either too stubborn or I think my work will suffer as a result of the “interconnectivity” and “engagement”. Who even knows anymore? I’ve decided to cave in and tag the bejesus out of my work now, and I feel that all traffic is good traffic (unless it’s a bot or something, but WordPress is a great engine for helping me identify organic viewership anyway, so whatever).
Additional aside: the number of unique tags assigned to my posts has shot up to over 8,300, and soon I’ll be able to say “IT’S OVER 9,000!!!!!!”

The execution of my drawings has definitely improved since the beginning of quarantine and all that jazz, so I figured I might as well exploit those skills on the intarwebs, as they’ve been met with universal praise in my personal circles. But that drags us into the conversation about people’s friends and families blowing smoke up their artistic asses even if the work sucks. I’ve always had that kind of thought on the back burner when people compliment my work, since I have a perfectionist bent (and perfection is impossible, so that kinda sucks).

In conclusion, I’ve become inspired to keep on chugging with my work. Even though the internal naysaying is just as strong as ever, this feels like a sustainable model for providing “content” to “the world”. The fact that I have to refer to my work as “content” kind of makes me want to vomit, but I suppose we need to exist within the times.

Cheers, everyone!

-Aidan

Rest Easy

Enter Groucho Violent,
star of the nerves and streets,
a double threat if there ever was one.

His reputation precedes him as witty enough to turn a phrase and hard-knuckled enough to know when to admit defeat in the face of a petulant and pernicious foe who, in all likelihood, believes that their position of power has been handed down to them from the LORD ALMIGHTY, and any little rivulet of diarrhea that escapes their corpulence is to be rendered an earth-shattering development in the field of extrapersonal material management, now and forevermore.

Groucho is no stranger to the justice-enforcement arm of things. When his even-keel demeanor and righteous self-taught martial arts techniques combined on one fateful and blustery Flag Day eve, the Justice Jab was born. If you’re still unfamiliar with the singlemost effective crimefighting maneuver ever concocted by man or beast (in Mr. Violent’s last-ditch effort to uncover the overall reason as to our lack of humility when confronted with reasoning), you have some real catching up to do.

The Justice Jab is a miracle worker when the recipient of said jab needs to be awoken from the haze that they’ve come to accept over time, through sheer laziness and self-disrespect. The haze’s effect causes but is not limited to: depression, sluggishness, flatulence, lack of interest in things one would normally enjoy, unjustified sporadic agitation, and death. Such a disconcerting malady comes as a direct byproduct of this world we’ve inherited (through no fault of our own). Rather than face the music, the vast majority of we, the privileged few, have chosen to consume the content created specifically to manipulate our emotional and physical dependencies more efficiently and cheaply than cocaine ever could.

So the next time you see Groucho Violent
meting out swift street vengeance,
you can rest easy
knowing that he’s doing humanity a service.

Muse

When the Muse
presents herself to you
as fully and openly as any artist
could have ever possibly hoped
throughout human history,
all one may do is thank her
for taking the time to schedule a visit.

Her glory is unmatched when it comes to graciousness and humility; she shares no physical boundary with the human system we’ve come to regard as the established norm for what we’re supposed to embody as advanced beings on a planet where the other most-advanced large-brained mammals still “talk” in the form of growls or roars or yips or screams or ticks or pretty much any form of communication not considered oral language on par with what we use in our daily lives (let alone the kind of language a doctor or Spanish teacher needs to decode on a regular basis).

Eatery / Watering Hole

It’s that time of year again, Linda! All the kids have been plunking themselves down in front of their TVs this evening for one reason and one reason only: The 46th Annual BacArthur Restaurant Industry Genius Grant Conferment Ceremony, brought to you by Susan and Thomas Q. BacArthur, The Gene F. and Billy D. McGillicuddy Foundation, viewers like you, and several billionaires. The festivities kicked off a few hours early this year, with a charming cocktail reception that appears primed to become a yearly tradition, should the food and beverage industry continue enjoying unprecedented growth–our economic experts unanimously agree to this trend’s sustainability as we close out 2019.

Several of the past year’s top emerging bartenders have been hired to wet the whistles of the greatest eatery / watering hole luminaries in our tri-state region. If you look carefully, you might just see the glimmering looks of magnanimity in the eyes of all these foodservice professionals as they wait with bated breath to find out who’s the lucky recipient of the prize that will allow them to explore their more scholarly pursuits for at least a week–perhaps a fortnight, depending on their current cost/s of living–without having to pick up a desperation shift at the last minute next Friday night.

Truly the American Dream, Linda.

With a Vengeance

I thundered through the threshold,
enthralled by many a porcupine diary–

when will we ever learn the true everlasting
Constantinople cantaloupe constitution?
I reckon never, though many local geniuses
think there’s a global phenomenon unfolding
with a vengeance.

I can only postulate,
though the post-latte high
seems to have stalled for a moment,
just briefly enough to incriminate
the most experimental of dancers
both near and far.

We’re still left baffled
by Hemingway’s cat collection,
but a learned individual once told me
that the more toes a feline has, the closer to
ultimate self-actualization
the beholder becomes.

Shotgun or no shotgun,
there’s quite a bit of cortex
to bandy about all willy nilly
if you’re willing to lose a day or two
to the unbending, unaltered
chimpanzee rhetoric machine.
Oh lord, I’ve lost
too many days
to count.

End of the Road

We’re near the end of the road,
starvation apparent to all
(save the ones in real trouble,
the ones in rose-colored glasses
who watch sunsets
while our star of direct consequence
floats overhead);

squirrel meat won’t quite cut it for me
after tasting nutria, the rodent
that eats more roughage per square inch
than I ever thought imaginable.
I taste the green in its diet,
the grassy notes popping on my palate
with just a hint of peppercorn.