June 9, 2005 at 8:47 AM

The Style of Artist:
Supplies and God.
Jennifer Warren

A token, a symbol, a bygone hope,
or
a destiny from this frozen dream that is real-
as real comes and goes.

The case,
in perfect style, perfect intelligence-
speaking to others of this worth
I only feel on the other side of my neck.
I wear it like an extension
as the care I add into the appearance of my instrument
fused with musician
makes me valid.

The black nylon hovers with the solemn-
the handles, brilliant with impromptu electrical tape:
it has all been thought of for safety.
A leather strap and an ID card.
which didn’t say anything identifying
Nothing more than the passing comments in the streets.

She is going someplace.
It is all quite impressive.

I suppose I can sponge-
let that illusion of achievement, purpose,
diligence, genius, and something ado about a
pure honest-
slide through the open air
which has stifled beneath the zippers and
weather safe material.
Taste through my teeth before I speak…

I like carrying around my instrument.
It makes me believe that person is connected
more than body to package.
But most days that connection refuses to pass
through the barriers of my skin.

How to let go of straps weighing shoulders down
pocket jammed with music learned and music to be…
How to regret
the blinding ignorance of those who understand
without pretense, yet take the intuition of it,
the core of the music.
Instead I am blindly infuriated with
the loss I feel for what was once my own shadow of devine.

She spurs her eyes to defend herself
cry out through body of varnish and holes
so I might feel compelled to kiss her
turn her into something once again simply beautiful.
Cure my spine.

Today I may carry her as a reminder. To bring back
possibly…one of those some-of-days enticed for
at least a moment.
I speak to her back there as I pass a hallway:
she stops you abrupt, passes through those words
“You are so blessed with the gift, the talent..don’t ever waste it.”
Why always this?
Like I might pour a bottle of wine down the sink
or miss something on my calendar
or throw myself in front of danger.
Why can’t I waste this as they waste?
Yet I am somewhat stubbournly pinned to my resources. The world takes
its historical maybes for granted with
such historical dogmatic eloquence.
Different each thousandth year.

When the case opens
to the real catalyst,
my brittle hands work,
frustration and dedication.
I keep waiting for that gift to
arrive,
but in the meantime all I can do is
work hard, knowing it isn’t a blessed gift.
There is no golden violin inside
of my rib, passing through to their ears. Just
what is inside of this case,
which intrigues you so, with your satisfied
and approving smiles.
She reminds me of the most high:
passion and desire and the unknown reasons
to always keep it living.
Raw insides tearing outwards.

Which makes the day sing-
or makes me enjoy the thought of an instrument
tatooed on my back, the importance
it somehow suggests.
In which case, I should trade it in for
a much less heavy and cumbersome shoulder bag
full of something else.
Like a camera.

From Patty Rutins
Posted on June 9, 2005 at 1:43 PM

Thank you, Jennifer. I think you have expressed what so many of us have felt: all the desire, the hubris, the humility of trying to play.

From Tim C
Posted on June 9, 2005 at 6:40 PM

All I can say is WOW. That was inspiring... Thanks... Tim

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June 9, 2005 at 8:47 AM

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