Last night I tried out a new idea. I went to my art collective space in West Hollywood with my 1964 Smith Corona typewriter (heavy!) and cool old-timey postage stamp-looking paper, and I improvised poems for strangers, then I spoken-word performed them. I rolled up the poem and tied a bow around it and Voilà! A poem was birthed and gifted. I think I’d like to do more of that. The typing alone felt like performing music, and it soothed my brain.
My pal Natasha showed up, and we talked for hours. She mentioned that she couldn’t find the next chapter of this reading, and I said, “That’s because I didn’t make one.” Inspired by her request, here’s the next chapter.
Chapter 3 -The Creative Act by Rick Rubin read to you by Annie the Human and Shanti the Dog