Manifesto of an Artist II

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is an essay I wrote for my final project in a writing class. It is a compilation of many smaller pieces I have done to express myself as a creative mind and person. This is how I expressed myself in certain moments of my life.


Submitted: October 22, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 22, 2016



Here we begin:

I find it difficult to write in any voice or style that isn't my own. I have a specific way of expressing myself and to try and write like someone else, I feel, is an injustice to my own creativity. Often when I’m given parameters I find it difficult to stay within the guidelines for some reason, however I can take a theme and weave new stories from it. As long as I don’t have a “the sky is the limit” cap for my work factored in, I have the freedom to be me. I am odd. I think differently. I cannot conform, no matter how hard I strive. Normal is an endless grey sky in space and in time. It completely depends on what mood I'm in as well. Sometimes I can bring the philosophy like no other and write things that are profound to me. Other times I can only be down to earth and say it how it is. My latest work has been down to Earth because of where I am in my life. I’ve had a flow of spoken word, rhyme and I’ve even been dancing hip hop more. No amount of editing could change this. I feel that this is the curse of a creator and artist. I'm very versatile and flexible with my abilities but if I'm stuck in a mood or mode, I can't pretend to think like or be someone I'm not.

My injury has inspired my writing. Due to my inability to express myself via the body, and exert my creativity, I have had bouts of verbal inspiration. I learned in my screenwriting class that if you have an idea, you should write it down, so I have been. It has been a way for me to get through the pain in my chest caused by my passion going unfulfilled, and also a way to pass the time in which I can escape from everything else. It has become a focus, a focus I have desperately needed, to bring together a somewhat intelligent congregation of multisyllabic sounds and noises, a soundscape on a topic that inspired me in the moment. Some days I would have to look around for inspiration and other days words, one liners or rhymes would jolt into my head, and poetry would flow from that one thought because I have no self-control. One line written becomes another four because the phrase must be finished. They’re all just short excerpts of larger ideas that fit on a small piece of paper each. Some are just one sided, some are two. At times there are many words in a line, and without the rhythm in the beat of my vocal box, without the way that I sculpt the idea in a musical way, my expression may not make much sense as I have struggled to find the song within the words myself. Then again, maybe a reader’s interpretation would make a new song that trumps mine. Maybe it’s a collaboration between reader and author; maybe that’s all writing is. The reader’s voice is more important until I set in concrete the way in which I aim to express the melody of rhythm by setting it in the wet cement of a record. Then I let it dry and see your thoughts in your eyes.

On occasion, I start off with an idea and it morphs into a deeper meaning. If my audience wishes to dissect my work, they are more than welcome to. There is more than one meaning, if not three or four meanings in some paragraphs; it’s all about what you take from it. I know what I mean and what I say, but if something resonates with you and makes your thinker go “Ooh, wait, this resonates in my personal life”, then I have done my job. I want to make people think, even if it’s “what does this mean? What was her angle? What was she thinking about when she wrote this?” because sometimes that’s the mystery of writing. As The Eagles said about Hotel California ‘Sometimes the band needs to have a song for themselves that no one else knows about’ and that’s how Hotel California is a meaningful song to The Eagles; only they know the true meaning of the lyrics, and for me, that’s part of the beauty of writing pieces that aren’t stories.

This was one of the first rhythmic pieces I wrote:

Sometimes the sun shines,

Shining in the right places,

Lighting up the right faces

Some time it burns.

It burns when the sun goes down.

The faces of the moon frown

As you cry and moan about the pain

But reality dictates

That with no pain you get no gains.


Try and feel the dignity

Riding through the figmentation

Of your lost imagination

Try and feel the pride deep inside

Knowing that you are important enough

To stand up, to rise up, to stride up

And let go of the bullshit.


Here’s another poem in response to a person I know who dwells on much of the negative but won’t open up as to who they are and what they are made up of in terms of life experience:


Why you so serious?

You’re always so mysterious.

That’s all you ever do

So take the words that you chew

And spit a rhyme, so sublime

That you takin’ the time

for some philosophy.

Make yourself a prophesy

That stands through the sands of all your animosity.


This is more of a stream of thought:


You try to break my spirit

But you have no chance.

I will block you out

With everyone else, I will progress.

I will still laugh.

I will still dance.

I will still have you.

It’s just you that will not experience what I have to give.

To you, I will transfer shoulders of ice.



This one was a proverbial thought about the cycle of self-growth. It’s a short story and appeared to me in a five second video clip in my head. It has the feeling of Big Fish, if you’ve ever seen that film.


There once was a girl with no shoes on who walked down a familiar, yet foreign path. She walked this path through the forest every day and knew it well. She came to her favourite tree stump to eat her lunch. She took out her sandwich for lunch, but she dropped it. Upon looking down to retrieve the sandwich, she saw a set of small footprints buried in the soil that were much too small to be hers. No one else lived near here. She was confounded and so decided to follow the footprints to see where they lead. With each step she took, she crushed each little footprint and replaced the step with her own. She walked for a year, watching the prints she was following getting larger and larger. She eventually started recognizing her surroundings from the point at which she began her journey. She saw the stump, and then the sandwich that she had dropped all that time ago. She looked down at herself; her clothes, her muddy feet, her hair filled with the debris of the forest she walked for a year. She brushed the dirt off her clothes, washed her feet in a nearby stream of water, and ruffled the twigs from her hair. She sat on the stump to rest. She was very tired and hungry. She picked up her sandwich and brushed off the leaves, but as she was about to take a bite, she looked up and saw a flicker in the woods. It must be the person who left those foot prints! She jumped up and decided to follow the footprints again as to not lose the person she followed for a year. With each step she took, she crushed each little footprint and replaced the step with her own.


Thoughts of a Stifled Artist


Well, I had a revelation (not really).

I don’t share my work because I hear it’s not good enough.

I don’t want people to do to me what I do to artists who think their work is good enough to share.

I’m afraid that how I see my work is not how others will see it.

What if it makes no sense? What if it’s inaccessible? What if my work fails because no one “gets it”?

You can put the most profound work on paper. It can be the most scrumptiously mind-blowing, intelligent, deep and punny work that should catapult the author to fame…but only a few people could appreciate the work because it was caught in a niche, because a select few had a similar mentality to the said author. Does that make the work any less mentally and intellectually scrumptious? Does that make the work any less than the greatness it is?

Success comes in the communication to an audience. If you can’t do that, is your work truly great?



A rhyme into prose:

Tress of the forest

Are the skies of green.

Oceans floating above,

Look up and you will see.

Take a second to open your eyes

To the truth of nature,

The sounds across the ground

Made by your own creator.


The purest of all the waves brought together all at once makes you feel the heat beat down upon you. Absorbing the thousand year old light, pent up, then released from the core of our life sustaining sun.


On sexism in the work place:


When a man talks to a woman he doesn’t know, but he is attracted to, you can tell the amount of respect he has for her by his eye contact, unbroken, as to intimidate her into submission. It’s endearing and for a woman to reject submission and not submit to the confrontation, she must stare back like nothing is wrong as the formalities are passed to and fro, but she knows that he is undressing her in his mind’s eye.

He is thinking of what he wants to do to her in copulative ways, and it leaves her feeling exposed and vulnerable as he probes her for personal information.


Erect a sign saying

“Do not touch”

Like I’m some kind of animal

That can be domesticated.


And lastly, some writing that pulled me out of a rut of negativity in response to my inability to dance in response to “Personism”:


Something between a person that loves something or someone. 
For instance:

Person 1? poem ? Person 2

But what if person 2 were something else?  Like if person 2 were a passion. 

Lover (me) ? poem ? lovee (dance)

Or transferred into more negative terms:

Lover ? passion stopping injury ? dance

What if the last formula were in relation to the second formula? What if my injury were a poem? A poem about just how much I need dance to complete me? About how, without dance, I feel like giving up.
Normal jobs and living a normal life makes me want to go to sleep until my body starts eating itself, until it invites other beings to nourish themselves on my mental and physical decomposition. Isn't that poetic?
I sleep for 13 hours, and without passion in my life, I'm still tired. There is no life in me anymore.


Dance has been there for me for sixteen years even when I quit on it. It always accepted me back. It has given me strength to keep going on and pushing harder and pulling things out of me I didn't know I could do. It made me try and showed me how, if I tried and took risks, I can do whatever I set my mind to. People have sort of done that for me but not how dance has. Dance has made me find this on my own. Dance is within me.


Music that makes me feel like dancing makes me happy. At least I can dance in my head and have it slip out in micro pulses. I will choreography it all in my head. It will be stored, then forgotten and lost forever.


But don't worry. I won't end my own life. I'm too scared of death to.

I'll let my body decide when I have to face my own misery and thus mortality.


As you can see, I’ve had many forms of expression in my search for creativity while on down time. I’m not confined to one form of expression, dance just fulfills my soul, and without the sense of completion, or the forward momentum of slinging yourself towards your goals, life doesn’t seem worth it. If you have an injury or are temporarily away from what brings you happiness in life, just remember that you have that. You have that passion. You have that love. You have the joy. It will return. All you have to do is take care of yourself, be patient, and be grateful because many people will go through their whole lives and never know the feeling of passion or inspiration bubbling inside them.


© Copyright 2019 G. E. Davies. All rights reserved.

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