Wednesday, 11 April 2012

Love Bursts From Guns

I’ve named this post after one of my favourite pieces of work.

Coincidentally, along with being a prime example of my creative process which I’m about to write about, the title is the perfect metaphor for the way in which I generate my little works of art. By art I mean of course, the written extensions of myself I call my lyrics.

I don’t really want to go into it, but for the record, do not for one second brush this post off because you don’t understand the importance of lyrics, or even acknowledge them as a legitimate form of art. For one thing, their force of impact on contemporary society is equivalent to a one-hundred tonne sledgehammer compared to the likes of Wordsworth and co, especially if you want to make an artistic statement. They are fashions of modern-day poetry when written well.  For example, how many 20 year-olds do you know who can sing one line of Bohemian Rhapsody? Compare that to how many people you know who can recite more one line of Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and you will have your legitimate reason.

If there was one thing my Literature lessons taught me, it was that it doesn’t matter if you’re reading a poem over one-hundred years old, or an album booklet featuring lyrics written by Lady Gaga in the 21st century – basic human nature will always be the same. Presentation and society are only temporary factors in the grand scheme of the raw, human emotion of the poetic verse.

But, that’s not what I’m going to write about tonight. You know in fact, I’ve prepared a completely different post on the topic, but utter metal fatigue has prevented me from being able to finish it.

That is what I’m going to write about tonight. It’s not “writers block”, because in order to write, or to be truly considered an artist in my little brain, the word “block” should definitely not be in your vocabulary. What should be instead is the word “inspiration”, and that stuffy, well-worn, casual phrase to be replaced with the lack thereof. There are no barriers to art, only obstacles available to cross if you have the right technique. So, instead, I am writing about the intense confusion of “techniques” which are happening in my brain.

There’s a perfect metaphor for this I could use, but instead I’m going to twist it to make it sound less as though I’ve done a copy and paste job, and probably, make it a little bit more representative of my creative mind set at the present time.

Imagine… You’re in jail.

Imagine you’re sat in really stereotypical jail cell, on the dusty floor covered in bits of straw and the bones of rats, and across the room, is a dirty fat guard asleep in front of the fire, with a set of keys hanging loosely from his belt. The situation is this; you’ve managed to reach through the bars, unhook the keys without him waking up, and now you’re stood there, with the lock inches away, holding the first key out of twenty, wondering how long it’ll take before you find the right one.

Typically, your first port of call is trial and error. Some look blatantly too big for the lock, so you push them aside, and others blatantly too small. Eventually there are ten keys left, any of which could reach blindly into the lock, click it open, and release you into the world of your dreams. One key and you’re free.

The only problem is that time is limited. You have to strike while the opportunity is as scalding hot as that candle flickering away there in the corner. The consequences if you don’t are fatal – you won’t unlock the cell, you won’t escape and you won’t be free.

Half the time I’m sure nobody understands what I’m talking about because ninety per cent of the time I find myself speaking in metaphors. If that made no sense then I’m about to confuse you even more… At the moment I’ve got around five or six sets of lyrics I’m “working” on, and I have no idea which key, direction, or technique will allow me to unlock each cell into the freedom of turning them into genuine pieces of art in their own right. One more metaphor; each song I’m writing makes me feel like I’m a spider, and every one of my eight legs wants to walk in a different direction, without any being stronger than the other. I’m ever so slowly being pulled apart.

Spiders are the spawn of the devil, I’m telling you. This is how much I hate this situation.

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