The Art Of The Undone - Brand New Poem!
The Never Was #220 | The Matchbook 4.3.26
It’s been a bit since I’ve shared a poem with you, which is silly and stupid of me probably because that’s most likely how 97% of you came to find me.
I’m really good at the business side of all this crap, as you can tell. REALLY good at knowing precisely what it is you kind folks actually want to see here hahaha. No. I’m not. But you can tell me in the comments if you’d like, what’d you like to see more of on The Matchbook posts! I’m all ears, and comments are open on this to EVERYONE. So tell me:
That said, today I wanted to share with you a poem that exploded out of me in a fit of something that felt like a combination of rage at the way the creative world has evolved, of deep and aching nostalgia for the simplicity of what was, the irritation of what is, and how I think the pursuit of perfection, or maybe Curation, is ruining so much of how things felt a decade or so ago.
Honestly, it’s hard to not get discouraged. A friend with a beautiful newsletter here messaged me the other day and told me he was done. He gave it a year to see what he could build and, of course, got discouraged. Here’s the truth he uncovered, and why it’s SO hard to stick, when everything is making you feel like sticking it out is a waste of time:
It’s really, really HARD to keep going when there’s so little response now to the things we make. It’s REALLY hard to keep writing, when you’re barely making ends meet doing so. He found what most all of us here find. Sure, there are some newsletters that pay the writer enough to feel completely comfortable, to pay the bills, to support a family. But most of us? We spend the hours of a full-time job, (or far, far more) and then make probably a quarter of minimum wage to do so. IF That. For him, it’s not sustainable, and so he’s done, and I’m heartbroken for it. For me, it’s not either, but I just cannot help it. I stay because I love it. Because I love all of you. I’m sick of begging for upgraded subscriptions or offering discounts on doing so, because dammit, I know I’m worth it, but I also understand that times are hard for a lot of us, and so I keep on. I love you too much to stop.
So yeah, upgrades keep me doing this, but I am tired of asking for them. I wanted this place to inspire, to create a community, and I Hoped that it would grow and grow and encompass so many more of you, but like my friend found, it hasn’t. There are plateaus we hit, and I’ve been on this one for years. But still, I cannot stop. But man, that’s where poems like these are born from, from all that wishing, all that missing.
I miss the early days of social media, when everyone was just figuring it out and everyone had access to everything everyone shared. I miss stupid photos of mundane things, that somehow felt like art. I miss the community of people that actually got to read every poem I shared because they chose to follow me, to support me. I miss posting about a print sale and having people want that art on their walls, not the algorithm hiding it and having to pay Mark Zuckerberg to allow people to see what they already said they wanted to see.
I miss the messiness before the perfection of digital, I miss the rough edges, the stuff that might be mostly shit but it doesn’t matter. I miss all the things that came from so many people who felt like they were bursting with so much they couldn’t fit inside them.
I just want simpler, I just want to go back to where we’re allowed to support who we want to support and see what we want to see and not have our entire stupid online life curated by some robotic-AI bit of code that dictates what, when, how, and if. We’re all becoming the same now, and it makes me crazy, from the songs we play because TikTok makes them viral to the memes we are subjected to from every single level of our lives starting with our family and friends and ending with the unhinged and abjectly hateful president in the White House.
That’s what this poem is, that’s where it started, that’s where it went, and it came out in one breath, starting with the first line, which is rare for me.
OH TO FEEL AGAIN
and the whole poem was born.
I’ve been stripping it away, all the silly excess, all the nonsense I never needed. I’m going back to what I was, what I am, what I know to be, though I don’t think I ever really left. Maybe it’s just more of me in order to be less of whatever things have become. Pure personality as rebellious defiance.
I wonder if you feel the same, I wonder if you want it too.
Here’s the audio version for all those who don’t get the ICK from my voice reading my poems:
I love you all.
Be good.
I appreciate the art in the poem, but also the vent! Go ahead and vent! Yep, it is not fair that someone can get a million views and regular income from content monetization by riding a shopping cart into a wall on TikTok, but not so much for leaving yourself overexposed by writing of your dreams in iambic pentameter. But I don’t think you are searching for examples of life’s many cruel ironies. So, your audible angst is appreciated, even to us as loyal readers. I’m reminded of the time that I was sitting watching a ballgame with my dad, when an angry yell erupted from the upstairs bedroom of my brothers’. I asked “What was that?!?” My Dad, just kept watching the game and calmly replied; “Sometimes you have to just let it out.” Nothing resolved, but clearly relieved. So yes, we understand. Beyond that? Let's talk about what “success” means. It’s not clear where success and creativity can coexist, yet unpaid bills are a clear sign of imbalance. Success in the creative arts is not typically measured in regular income, but as a level of appreciation that affords the artist enough time and mental freedom to create both art and community. If you were to query online about the mis-fortunes of writers, there are too many references to note. Almost universally so for poets. Google suggested that poet Robert Graves provide the most famous quote regarding poets and money : "There's no money in poetry, but then there's no poetry in money, either.” For certain, poetry has more value to people than a monetary value. Why else would every state have “ poet laureate’s or universities with “ poets-in-residence”. We do seem to want to “have” poets, just not to pay them enough to write. In Norway, the government pays poets to be poets. It does this for many other artists, too. All published material in Norway is required by law to be placed in the National Library and the Arts Council purchases books of poetry. Renowned artists in Norway can receive a guaranteed income. It is possible to be a poet in Norway and not be living in a van down by the river. Perhaps this is one more reason that Norway is consistently ranked as one of the happiest countries in the world, usually appearing in the top 10 of the annual World Happiness Report.
Yes, this. Give me the humanity of the mess, the aches and brilliant joys that spill like ice cream splatters on a sunny day.
Grateful to you always, my friend