Art as a Means to Live

You guys better be reading and keeping up with this blog. One day, it’s going to be famous.

The other day I realized that I am, in fact, going to be the world’s next great screenwriter. Bold statistic, you say? Well, I look at it from this perspective:

If any of you keep up with future theatrical releases, then you know that there is a movie called Hot Tub Time Machine coming out soon. Okay, here is the premise of the film. Four down-on-their-luck friends (in their mid-30’s, early 40’s) take a trip to ski lodge and end up transported back to the year 1986. They see themselves as who they are in reality, but everyone else sees them as they were in 1986. They have an oppurtunity to change their lives and get the women they really wanted and as such a science fiction comedy flick of possibly around 90 minutes ensues.

Okay, that really has to be one of the lamest premises I’ve ever heard of. The only other one I can think of right off hand that’s worse would be the one for Death Bed: The Bed That Eats People, which in it’s own right, has to seriously be one of the three worst movies I’ve ever seen. Anyway, how does this equate to me being the world’s next amazing screenwriter?

This is a perfect example of the standards Hollywood has. Not only did a major studio, United Artists, nonetheless, pay the people who wrote this script to buy it from them, they put in production, and in turn, are marketing this thing heavily. The comedy genre has been more misses than hits lately (remember Meet The Spartans?), and this film, especially given it’s name, is no doubt going to make many people’s Worst Of The Year lists.

Watch, I say that now, but it gets nominated for an Oscar later on in the year.

Anyway, how does a rant about Hot Tub Time Machine equivalate to the title of this blog? It doesn’t, at least on it’s own. Here’s why.

Since I moved back to my parents place at the end of January, I have opened my eyes to the work I have done in years past. I’m drawing again, which I haven’t done in years beforehand. I’ve got a few pieces done over the last month and a half, but as usual, I am overly critical of my own work. So, I don’t feel any artistic integrity behind them. They’re not horrible, but to my own opinion, they’re not that good either.

I’ve been playing music again lately. I’ve actually gotten deep into it, to the point where songs I’ve had stashed away and haven’t played in years are being re-written and critiqued, along with a new list of cover songs I’m creating (among them are some Sparklehorse tracks in memorium to the falling of gifted songwriter Mark Linkous). I’ve also been doing a bit of original composing lately, among the compositions is a song dedicated to Linkous. Wow, for someone I’m not totally familiar with yet, I still feel the hole created in what’s left of the legitimate sense of the music industry due to his passing.

Poetry has been raised in the forefront of my artistic ambitions lately as well, especially given certain sequences of events that have transpired since the end of January. I’m even working sonnets again, which really tripped me out. You know, those English ones that William Shakespeare used to compose on what seemed like a bi-weekly basis? ABAB CDCD EFEF GG. You know, those little bastards with specific rhyming schemes (hence the lettered visual representation) and pantameter similarity.

Well, I find myself clawing back into the ebbs of totalitarian artistry. I’ll probably start painting again soon, and who knows, maybe hit up sculpture again. Only time can tell that one…

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About Robert L. Franklin

Ah, the About Me section - social networking's excuse for you sounding like an elitist prick. Hmm... what to say? What to say?
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