Jeffrey Lewis, Daniel Kitson and the Cosmic Cube

I like the idea of outsider art. I'm listening to Jeffrey Lewis right now. This particular song was played at the end of the Daniel Kitson gig I was at on Tuesday. Those two are quite closely linked in my head (along with Josie Long) with a movement of lo-fi, romantic, geeky, ambitious, tender art; a movement that I've discovered over the last few years - long after everyone else.

I'd like to be able to do what they do, but I'm not earnest or confident enough. Oh, and talented. That's the trouble with outsider art: if you're a real outsider, you wouldn't succeed as an artist.

I'm sure I've written about this before, but I struggle to completely identify with my favourite artists, because the very fact of their notoriety makes them different to me. They have a combination of determination and neuroses that I seem to lack. Perhaps it comes from a secure and happy upbringing.

Of course, I wasn't the happiest of teenagers. I should have channelled that dissatisfaction into something more productive.

Watching Kitson makes me question my entire stand-up style. Everything about him seems so genuine, that it makes my wacky observations seem really shallow. I'd like to form a genuine connection with the audience (even though I don't want to actually talk to any of them).

I feel that I could split all my material in two. One half would be observations about life, and the other would be odd surreal ideas. I could create a second personality. Paul Funge. Or something more interesting.

As you can tell from the preceeding paragraphs, one of the traits I do share with those people is self-indulgence. Glorious self-indulgence.

I've got no time for people who don't indulge themselves. The material world is so subjective, I choose to sail on the glittering raft of solipsism. All my stuff is here, and it's well comfy.

***

I shouldn't do these late-night posts. I already know I'll cringe when I read this tomorrow, and in a year, and in twenty years. Although I reckon you cringe less as you get older.

I wonder if you could squeeze fruit juice by cringing. If you hid oranges about your person and cringed, you could collect all the juice by standing in a big trough. I'd buy freshly-cringed orange juice.

It would be bitter, of course.

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Just because you like something or someone doesn't mean you have to emulate it. I shouldn't try to be Daniel Kitson. He's impossibly good. And I'm very different to him. Not worse exactly.

Just... worse.

I don't try to emulate Mark E Smith, after all. I think I think too much about what I should try to do. Maybe I do have those neuroses after all.

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I don't know what these three asterisks are all about. Perhaps they're a chance for you to catch your breath. After all, I'm writing at quite a blistering pace.

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So - legs, eh? What are they all about?!

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I'm not going to check this entry for typos. Daniel Kitson's emails are full of errors. You have to admire his commitment to being an outsider. He's not even willing to kowtow to the restrictions of GRAMMAR. That dude's hardcore.

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Time for bed now. Come on, Paul (Fung or Funge).

Come on.

Can I finish with an awesome Jack Kirby Captain America cover?



Yes.