She was not my girlfriend. I really didn’t want her to be. I was done raising my kids and she had five or six of them under the age of fourteen. I liked her company though, so I hung out with her whenever I could. She was an artist and a damned good one. I would sit and watch her paint, sometimes playing piano quietly in the background. She liked that. She said it relaxed her and helped her do her best work. I loved her energy and was always happy just to be in the same room as her.
We all left the concert stage with huge grins on our faces. The crowd had loved us, but that was to be expected when your boss was the celebrated Star. I should not have even been there, but her keyboardist was a friend of mine and he’d gotten sick and called in a last minute favor. I’d been happy to oblige, since I knew most of the Star’s songs anyway. At that moment, the celebrity powerhouse was standing backstage with several bigwigs who were gushing over her, just as they were paid to do. I gave high fives and handshakes to several of the band members and accepted with humbleness, their sincere compliments. Many of them headed to the green room where the post concert banquet was no doubt awaiting us.
Joyce strode down the hallway angrily, hurriedly wrapping the towel around her wet body. Watery footprints trailed behind her as she wondered why Murphy’s Law had to be so damned prevalent. Why, for instance, does the phone only ring when you’re in the shower, or in this case, why someone need to ring your doorbell? She reached the front door and stood on tiptoe to peer out of the peephole. Her hot anger subsided a bit as she saw who was on the other side of the door. She swung it open and glared intentionally at her friend.
So I was talking with some folks on Twitter not too long ago about my poetic style. One of my followers pointed out that women buy a lot of erotic literature, but are not quick to purchase such material from male writers. I found that quite interesting. In my estimation, there is a difference in the poetry put out by women versus that put out by men, but still, erotica is erotica right? It’s like pornography a bit. You like it or you don’t. Even with that, I have women friends who will watch videos directed by men just as much as they will watch those directed by women. So why isn’t the same attentiveness given to male poets?
I have been involved with music for most of my life. I took up piano at age eight and practiced my butt off until my mother purchased my first budget keyboard. It was a tiny Casio VL-1, but you would have thought she’d bought me a Korg Triton. I hammered out every melody I could until she was satisfied of my seriousness. Then I graduated to the MT-68 LOL. Ah, memories.
Not too long ago, I wrote an article on the dangers of the internet. While that article covered many aspects of internet usage and abuses, I was and am particularly concerned with what those abuses mean for creative types like me. It has been a bit frustrating over the years to pour so much work into creating music only to be unable to share it on a large scale. I am fond of saying that if algorithms were done away with, creative people would be billionaires inside of a day. Out of six billion-plus people, finding an audience would be a piece of cake.