James B. Cheatham

I'm an artist. I questioned that for the longest time. It's such a pompous-sounding proclamation, a very misunderstood, overused term - like genius. I use the word with my own definition in mind. It may not gel with yours.

Tried to go the traditional routes - marriage, a career, house, fatherhood. Still have the house and a great relationship with my daughter. I spend my days collecting - words, images, thoughts - and then purge them at the end of the day.

Highly susceptible to addiction - have to wall myself in. I love women, freedom, art. In terms of my art, I don't have a craft. I have a craft table. I split the all-too finite hours dabbling in painting, drawing, photography, acting, directing theatre, writing (poetry, rants, plays, screenplays, stories). Occasionally, a finished product will arise and I'll usually give the piece to a friend or relative.

I've been published locally, but publishing isn't my goal. The pursuit of the idea, the fleshing out, the avenues a spark traverses -the work - is what excites me.

Although I have a degree, I work in environments that are down to earth. I want to relate to the world, not ideals, not systems and processes. I want to relate with people, and these jobs allow me to do that.

I've lived in the mountains, on the beach, but I've settled in a middle-American Florida town to be with my daughter until she's eighteen. If I can dupe the depression, the insanity that hovers just a little too close, I've got my whole life ahead of me.

Works featured on The Beat:

A Letter Of Regret

Posted: Monday, May 17th, 2004 - Filed in Writing, Poetry | No Comments »