Hungry Eyes...Influence and Duende...Sorta

I chose this title just so while you are reading this....the song will be stuck in your head and contributing to any unintentional pathos found herein. Yesterday after work I swam home and turned on the AC and TLC....(the ladies' channel) I watched "Say Yes to the Dress" and ate some goldfish while reading poetry by Louise Gluck. I find no irony in this.

I then went on Facebook wherein I saw that my fella had taken the "I write like" test, and apparently...according to this kitschy little monstrosity....he writes like David Foster Wallace. I of course had to put in my "work" and low and behold...I too write like DFW. This got me thinking...doesn't everyone writing/ thinking in this postpostpost- modernity kinda write like DFW....in a reference rich simulacrum of conscilience? Then I found this AP article on the whole phenomena http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5j93L3sF-VA-F548doKe70er5uD0wD9H0DAU81
The little nugget about Herman Melville writing more like Steven King than himself is just delightful.

It brings up an interesting idea about influence. That is why when I write I like to have reality television on in the background. I like to know a lot about Angelina Jolie and Ochocinco. I think it keeps me present and keeps my brain from swimming too deeply in Lorca's duende. I think it is important that we treat all media...well....most media with care...and by care I mean...acknowledgment of its presence...because whether we like it or not it is here to stay...and I'd like to have a really clear idea as to what it is I am making fun of, or criticizing...and why.

The book that I can't stand to have open in front of me.

The blank kind. The sort in which I was told, all through my years as an art student, that I should be filling with sketches, ideas, images that may or may not develop.
Can't open the things without wanting to run away. I made an effort recently to give it a real go, to be a man about it and keep a damn sketchbook, but that one, too, lies collecting dust in a corner of the studio, the pictures on its first twenty or so pages nothing more than brittle exoskeletons, destined never to expand, never to be a painting on my wall.
I float through life. My mind is rarely where I am; my hands count out change for you but they do it in rhythm with the music that was playing the last time they held a brush. How can I set them to work on a sketch, a plan? They only work on the real thing. How can I expect myself to grab a wave from the river and put it on paper and close the book? Will it not dry and darken; what is left when I open it up again?
I paint in the moment. It gives me comfort (when I'm not worrying about it) that I can only feel like I know what I'm doing at the exact moment that I am doing it. Sketching isn't doing it, for me. Sketch books weigh hundreds of pounds in my hands. Maybe I'll make a sculpture out of all of my abandoned sketchbooks someday.