What is cool? Who the fuck cares? As I lay in my bed at 6:23am wide awake on my day off, it’s certainly not me! Did I mention I’m laying in my bed, at my parents house, where I’m living, as a divorced single grown ass man? You see life is a dick sometimes, and we find ourselves in some uncool places.
I have never felt “cool” in my life, well maybe a few times, but it was short lived. I’m a self-proclaimed poet, that’s so not cool. Sure I’ve written 4 books, been published many times in publications, and got to write about everything from politics to rock-n-roll, but it took being uncool to do that. I’ve interviewed punk rock royalty and rock legends, but again, it’s because I’m uncool. Cool people don’t become journalists and poets, they become rockstars and people who get interviewed. It’s up to us uncool writers to make them seem cooler than they actually are.
The art of the uncool is what makes art beautiful. Sure artists are seen as cool, along with writers, but have you known any? We are a weird bunch of introverted, extroverted, anxiety filled, depressed, emotional train wrecks that make messes as forms of expression. We are artists because we can’t do what normal people do. Our way of dealing with life is fucked up so we paint, create, write and barely hold it together.
We aren’t cool, we know it, and most of us don’t fucking care. You see, we found out early, just how the game works. There were the social classes even as kids. The jocks, the beautiful, and us, those awkward quiet ones. The ones drawing pictures, playing instruments, making messes and writing stories. We were the weirdos and the outcasts but we knew it. By the time we were adults, some of us dropped out into the normal life, some even changed to become “cool” but many of us stayed the course of the uncool. We got art degrees, dropped out to create or simply just never tried to gain higher education for the sake of our art. We put art first and carried our baggage into our adulthood like a champ. We watched relationships struggle, found ourselves isolated and even in some really shitty places. This was all part of being the uncool.
I write everyday. It might be poems or blogs or songs or something. My brain says write and I do, even if I’m working. I have a shit job and it’s not my priority, because I’m uncool and think art is more important. I work with some amazing talented and very uncool people. These weirdos think the same, we all suffer in the name of art but more so, in the name of being uncool.
The art of being uncool is that place where you know you have a voice and it’s yours. It’s when you see your own creativity blossom into a chaotic hurricane of hope, despair and beauty. Being uncool is cool, because being an artist is contradictory. We are fucking weird. We want love and health and financial stability but we don’t want it either. We create things people want but refuse to sell it or rather give it away. Our lives are filled with self-inflicted critiques, internal struggle and a wide array of social issues that seem to alienate us further from the rest of society. We live weirdly, very uncool, as beautiful messes. That’s the art, the art of being uncool, and we who embrace it are at times the only assemblamce of cool left in this world.