In any case, I hero worship in public; I do it at my desk. don’t do The desk where I do most of my writing is pushed into a corner of my bedroom, a corner I call my of It is adorned with photos of bears—polar, panda brown and “wall inspiration.” grizzly, still scenes from old Star Trek episodes and Wes Anderson movies, and photos of other artists I admire. But the bulk of the wall is papered with pictures of Michael Stipe. Who knows why we pick any one particular person as a muse? gone through my share of favorite I’ve singers, painters, poets and actors, but over the years, the lyrics written by this particular man have failed to leave me alone. just always been enamored by the way he strings words I’ve together and how those words, delivered in an unpolished gravel-road of a voice, shake through my privileged and weary-eyes of river poet search very viscera. Certain phrases haunt me; “the and orbit around in my brain, rattling, jangling, and sneaking into my work. naïveté,” That said, I am not a gusher; I do not gush, nor do I like other people to gush to me. a line in where Holden Caulfield is watching an audience react to The Catcher in the Rye There’s a hokey-piano player in a jazz club that I always identified with: swear to God, if I were a piano player or an actor or something and all those dopes “I though I was terrific, hate it. I even want them to clap for me. People always clap I’d wouldn’t for the wrong things. If I was a piano player, play it in the I’d goddam closet.” So, the man who and of there greeting wrote “So. Central Rain” “King Birds” stands people and signing autographs, and I have no thought in my head other than As I stand “run.” there, mortified, person after person splatters their innermost gratitude and admiration onto this man, who looks rather like a skittish deer in the headlights. An emo-cute girl with jet black hair,
In any case, I don’t do hero worship in public; I do it at my desk. The desk where I do most of my writing is pushed into a corner of my bedroom, a corner I call my “wall of inspiration.” It is adorned with photos of bears—polar, panda brown and grizzly, still scenes from old Star Trek episodes and Wes Anderson movies, and photos of other artists I admire. But the bulk of the wall is papered with pictures of Michael Stipe. Who knows why we pick any one particular person as a muse? I’ve gone through my share of favorite singers, painters, poets and actors, but over the years, the lyrics written by this particular man have failed to leave me alone. I’ve just always been enamored by the way he strings words together and how those words, delivered in an unpolished gravel-road of a voice, shake through my very viscera. Certain phrases haunt me; “the privileged and weary-eyes of river poet search naïveté,” and orbit around in my brain, rattling, jangling, and sneaking into my work. That said, I am not a gusher; I do not gush, nor do I like other people to gush to me. There’s a line in The Catcher in the Rye where Holden Caulfield is watching an audience react to a hokey-piano player in a jazz club that I always identified with: “I swear to God, if I were a piano player or an actor or something and all those dopes though I was terrific, I’d hate it. I wouldn’t even want them to clap for me. People always clap for the wrong things. If I was a piano player, I’d play it in the goddam closet.” So, the man who wrote “So. Central Rain” and “King of Birds” stands there greeting people and signing autographs, and I have no thought in my head other than “run.” As I stand there, mortified, person after person splatters their innermost gratitude and admiration onto this man, who looks rather like a skittish deer in the headlights. An emo-cute girl with jet black hair,