Wednesday, July 2, 2014
the joy of making part one. a short essay.
It comes from a foggy region in the front of the brain-this impulse to bring forth something-a ditty, a playpurty, a katydid-and hold it up as your own, perhaps as a child, shiny in birthfluids, in the air, before the community, begging it's acceptance, lest it should be cast aside as a common five-pound stone in the backyard. And in the early stages they all have such interesting potential-why, they could be, could do, anything great or small-and then it fades as the bright future becomes the dull present then marches further behind into forgotten history or rather, as their true characters come into focus from through the haze of the unconscious-there comes a grain, pockmarks, and naked pores that were smoothed before. "Such interesting potential" I muse, every time, like Charlie Brown running to kick the football, quixotic, not caring about the looming disappointment, only in the now riding a wave of that shiny future, driven, if somewhat dumbly so. It comes and must be lived with, sat beside, cajoled, befriended, and at some point, understood. You will one day understand yourself, and hopefully you won't be too old to care when it happens, or perhaps too young to care either. How many of us have the experience of understanding when the dirt of the grave is pulled over us? But to say, I did this and now I must grasp fully that which I have done is the next step in that one's destiny. Imagine the horror of the mad scientist with a monster-sized hole in the wall and the words on his lips: "what have I done?" Indeed. It comes soon, the regret does. Like a blackout drunk who has awakened in a strange place with bloody hands does the creator inevitably feel the tugging of doubt about what he has accomplished. "What was I thinking when I did this horrible thing?" And do think that way; don't ever let anyone talk you out of it. Be a pessimist about yourself and your own works. Trust me, it will look like humility. It turns on the chicks(kidding: if anything this is probably inverse). As they say, live with it, stiffen your spine and bear it, because you cannot put the toothpaste back in the tube once you have let it out, and to try to do so is a true waste of time and talent. Comes also the time when one's work is released into the world, innocent and defenseless, to stand on the unsturdy legs of it's own merits. This is a tense time for creators, for they usually have such high hopes, whether these are buried deep within or kept closer to the surface, and only disappointment results, for no work is an earthquake, a champagne shower, a light of truth for the world. Of course, appreciation is appreciated, but, again, usually never up to the expectation of the creator. But every monster-every creation-has its time to roam the hapless countryside. And I say, if you can't change the world, at least shape it in a positive way. Let there be some sort of moral or lesson for the audience to walk away with. Let there be a silver lining for a cloud, or a nice bit of frosting for a big cake-something to be enjoyed later, so someone can look back and say, "yes, that was good" and mean what they say. While the beast roams free wreaking havoc as it will and truly should, some creators hide underneath the bed covers, while others stand before their picture window and marvel, thinking of what his happening because of his or her own actions. We already know the ultimate outcome is disappointment, but this is the climax of the ride-not the slow stop at the end, but the fast paced excitement-filled culmination of artistic effort. "Did you see?" screams the authors soul, for to see is part of the equation, to understand another, and to sympathize or relate is the true goal, but these are all mere stones of a castle, a fortress built by the ego and swept daily by the creator, in darkness, quietude and cold.