Thursday, July 31, 2014
personal productivity, a protracted musing in the creativity essay
The world will squeeze out your heart, and inflame your mind, giving you, ultimately, the germ of your artistic endeavor, simply handing it to you, without the need for thanks. Out of the fog of cognition, a form begins to present itself, metaphors appear, grow, mutate, and the workings will have begun in earnest, not giving you a moment to pull away and say "I'm really doing it." Even a child learning to ride a bicycle will say he or she is doing it, really doing it; they will have that luxury. But creators rarely do. Follow the muse, and don't let go until the muse is exhausted, breathless, spent. The eccentricities will run freely, the stranger tendencies will come out and play and yes, there will be voices even in the still of night. These are a tableux of goats exposing themselves in quasi-erotic poses and other novelties that explode through the mind of a creator, and who else, but the humble creator can tame that weird torrent? It is like alchemy; the making of sense out of nothing is fully comparable to turning waste into gold, I say. Let the filth shine, part of me says, and then there are a few books I'd gladly burn, but we must be careful here. These are not fine distinctions, but instead are the broadest generalities, the supreme superlatives, bumping at the guard rails of art and decency on the edge, right before we all go right into the weeds and possibly put the whole everloving carriage up a tree. There go I, but for the grace of God, I says. Only the most fragile sentiments hold us together sometimes. I'm reminded of the passage in Ulysses when Bloom's wife decides she wants to get pregnant after she watches dogs have sex in an alleyway. Hold onto your dignity with both hands, but, by Jove, enjoy thyself! Inspiration comes sometimes when you least expect it, like me, when I'm washing my filthy bum, lost in thought, comforted by warm water and the scent of soap, standing nude in my most dispicable form, lips slightly parted in a posture of absolute stupidity, the brain crawls like a busy ant hill. If you thought my clothes were ugly, remember it could get much worse! You would not want to see me as God made me, for I have flaws, not good ones that glitter and gleam like the flaws in a gem, but dark spots and problem areas, like a reject egg. Things point in different directions, and things hang like they want to fall from the body, escape from me, as it were. That's the ticket, the rub: they want to escape, to be released from the ramshackle host being, and that is I; this is me. Ramshackle and haphazard, hanging askew like a neglected portrait, buckling like wood furniture left outdoors and collecting dirt, mold, mites like carpet that should be replaced. Such as it is. But oh friends, I got a nugget of energy in the brain, that lets me know, I'm superbad. It makes the quiet hours an opera, and then it shuts up when its not needed. It's a powersource that is unfailing, unceasing, and not necessarily clean. It so often drives people to err, doesn't it? And in spectacular ways. I don't fear it; I respect it, for all it's strength. I could glorify it, but I won't. I'd rather personify it and give the qualities of spector-a friendly one. It would never hurt me. It makes me strong, gives me emotions and thoughts, sometimes distractions, but sometimes epiphanies that shake me from the bottom, from the feet, where I'm usually firmly planted. I like so many have been through personal hell, and lived, surviving, wounded on the inside, seemingly normal on the outside, hoping infection does not set in on my injured soul, and it's a statement for me to just sit and stare, surviving still. But I feel one day the women will sit with me, feeding me grapes, tending my feet and brushing me with their love(whatever that means-you think about it a while). And until then, may the soft whisper of the leaves on the trees tell your story best.