Group happenings

I was at my writing group a few weeks back when something happened. Actually, a lot of things happened; Rhonda forgot her morning coffee, and was more surly than usual. Not that you care, but Rhonda can be very surly when she wants to be, and without coffee, Wow! She gets that way from trying to pull together a choir out of a bunch of inexperienced old folks. She’s the director of her church’s music ministry.

Other things which happened were; Elaine graced us with longform prose about Cat-Power, Dave brought a syrupy long-assed poem to share and I almost fell asleep before it ended. Chase had lost his voice and couldn’t read what he brought. Charlotte talked about life when she lived in Japan. Although, this wasn’t unexpected because she always does this. And Greg’s essay was funnier than usual, but most of the group decided to ignore this, preferring a fifteen-minute argument over his over-usage of the word, “that.” We’re a strange group, to be sure.

Let’s have a snack

Another oddity was Jenny brought a box of snack cakes, and everyone was afraid to open it. Imagine this, here’s thirteen drooling adults all looking at a box of Little Debbie Swiss Rolls, being scared to take the big step and be the first to take the one. It’s really an interesting dynamic.

Our little writer brains knew the cakes were for everyone, but still, we didn’t want to make the move just in case we were wrong. At about the meeting’s halfway point, Jenny tore into the box saying, “These are for everyone. Why hasn’t anyone taken any?”

You all know what happened next. We all grabbed the cakes like a bunch of rabid teenagers looking at a bag of potato chips. Suffice to say, the battle was messy and there were no survivors. Twelve cakes do not divide evenly into thirteen adults. Terry, the odd man out, put on a brave face, saying “Ohh well, it just wasn’t my turn today. All while silently cursing the others. Then in a dramatic show of self-sacrifice, half the others volunteered to give up their cake, hoping beyond hope they wouldn’t actually have to. What about me you ask? I let them fight it out, and ate mine without guilt. That’s the kind of idiot I am.

Random Chaos

Anyway, this whole scene took about thirty minutes to resolve itself, thankfully without bloodshed. Then we were able to get back to the writing prompt. I will say, some nasty writings came in response to that particular prompt. Was it because of the snack fiasco? I guess we’ll never know. What I do know is, I’ve gotten very far away from the point.

The thing I referred to in my opening sentence had nothing to do with everything I just described. So, you should all disregard it, like in court, when a judge tells a jury to forget something which just happened a few seconds ago. Like that’s going to happen. When I was on a jury, the judge told us to forget something the prosecutor said. I couldn’t. Her simple statement of denial forced me to burn it into my brain. But I should probably forget all this and get to the point.

It ain’t me

What happened was, out moderator Linda, informed us that as writers we are artists. I thought this was weird. Artists are moody, selfish people who wear berets, black clothes, and produce things of great, yet incomprehensible, meaning. They invariably give stuff away free, because they don’t know their own worth. Lastly, they hang out in dark coffee houses, cursing the French government for allowing Napoleon to regain the throne in 1815. Like they could do anything about it now. Then at about age forty they all go insane, and start looking for unicorns. This is certainly not me. I never go looking for unicorns. I know where they are.

I will admit to the whole insane thing, but I never wear black and hate berets. Frankly, I never thought of myself as an artist. Mostly because everything I write or create is understandable.

As an example, I don’t understand any of Picasso’s work. James Joyce wrote the book Ulysses, and I defy anyone to tell me they understood a word of that. These folks are what I call artists. I guess you could say Dave and his sleepy poems are art, but not my stuff.

Lot’s of stuff

Another problem with artists is; what do you do with what you create? We all can’t have a museum dedicated to us. Van Gogh tried to use his paintings to pay for stuff. Once he gave a painting to his dentist. The guy didn’t know that a Van Gogh painting was worth anything, so he used it as a wall of his chicken coup. Now is that a misunderstood artist or what?

Then again, when he got the picture, it wasn’t worth anything, because Vincent was still alive. The dentist should have let Vince’s teeth rot. The infection would kill him, and the doc’s painting would go up in value. Most artist’s stuff isn’t worth jack while the artist is still alive. Does this mean, when Linda called me an artist, she wanted me to die? Did she want the Mr. Ohh! original writing, she had accumulated, to soar in value? That’s a bit harsh!

The thing is with computers there really aren’t any originals. I can produce as many copies as I want. I could also keep my more obscure writing to myself. Sure, she had authentic Mr. Ohh!s. But she’d have to have to keep me around to see the good stuff. Insurance, I like that.

An Oh Crap Moment

Wait a second. I’m right now giving you all free access to my writing. This is very artist like, but do artists talk about dragons and unicorns all the time like I do? NO… Oops, I guess they do. Well, we’ll just ignore that fact, and get back to proving my innocence.

The artists that get me are song writers. They create bunches of songs nobody ever hears. Sometimes, even if they’re being performed. I refer you to a woman I heard at a coffee house once. She was singing and playing the guitar. I went to the restroom and she played an original work. I missed it because I had to pee. Folks told me how great it was, but I’ll never know. I was selfish enough that my bodily functions came before her creativity. Then again would’ve it been better to put a stain on the floor? I guess we’ll never know.

Wait another second! I was in a coffee house when this happened. And I was being selfish. Also, I was wearing my black pants, and discussing politics with a friend at the time. Not Napoleonic politics to be sure, but politics nonetheless. I’m not sure if I was moody at the time. Then again, I’m sure I would’ve been if I hadn’t gone to the restroom.

Let’s think about this; Selfish, Moody, Black clothes, Dark coffee house, Hidden deep meanings, Free sharing, and Discussing politics. Holy crap, Maybe I am an artist!!

But I’m Still Not Wearing A Silly Beret!!