this li(n)e, this curve, this cross
The modern hero, the modern individual who dares to heed the call and seek the mansion of that presence with whom it is our whole destiny to be atoned, cannot, indeed must not, wait for his community to cast off its slough of pride, fear, rationalized avarice, and sanctified misunderstanding. "Live," Nietzsche says, "as though the day were here." It is not society that is to guide and save the creative hero, but precisely the reverse. And so every one of us shares the supreme ordeal - carries the cross of the redeemer - not in the bright moments of his tribe's great victories, but in the silences of his personal despair.
The closing paragraph of The Hero With A Thousand Faces by one Joseph Campbell, written in 1948 and still powerful, man, still.
Which I interpret as "go your own way, feel what you feel, then do something about it."
Creative is also a verb, people dri.
Through the course of the day and with a couple of sweet snarky typically He emails from my FutureHusbandIfNoneOtherComeAlong mikey66e, I've been thinking with a touch more clarity about this little drama I drummed up for myself over the weekend.
Ari and Sheba, I think you were quite right when you two said "how could he not be lying at her feet in adoration?" Damned straight! And that's the lie/story/script I was unconsciously working on. That he'd see me and be irresistibly drawn to me, forsaking all others, that he'd at least talk to me cos it's the third time and it should be his turn now!
I had told myself a story.
And I know we all do. Most particularly, that's what writers do. We lie. And so somehow there's a sense that I owe it to myself to be brutally honest, to strip away those lies when it comes to me me me.
In a way, it's like religion. To me, it says a lot more about intellectual, if not spiritual, evolution when you can see what's fact and what's myth and then choose which to believe for that moment. Right now, I choose to believe the blankness of my own eyes and the deafness of my spiritual ears. Right now, I choose not to believe the myth of religion. I want to see how long I can go without the spiritual safety net of an omniscient benevolent deity, without the comforting fictions of prayer and heaven and hell and a man who may or may not have been born of a virgin and may or may not have risen from the dead.
But to go the other way, in terms of my own twisted myth, I could choose to create an even more elaborate lie. See, in this version Mikey and I came up with, maybe he did notice me. Maybe he did want to come up and say hello. Maybe he was trapped in that conversation and was watching me flirt with all the boys, cuddle with the girls, wanting to come over. Maybe he even planned to say hello later in the night and was disappointed when I left. Maybe, as Mikey said, I was the unattainable one.
Oh how light and precarious does the sugar lie lattice stack up.
So which do I believe? The bare reality or the gorgeous myth?
Sometimes you need a story. - Joss Whedon.
The closing paragraph of The Hero With A Thousand Faces by one Joseph Campbell, written in 1948 and still powerful, man, still.
Which I interpret as "go your own way, feel what you feel, then do something about it."
Creative is also a verb, people dri.
Through the course of the day and with a couple of sweet snarky typically He emails from my FutureHusbandIfNoneOtherComeAlong mikey66e, I've been thinking with a touch more clarity about this little drama I drummed up for myself over the weekend.
Ari and Sheba, I think you were quite right when you two said "how could he not be lying at her feet in adoration?" Damned straight! And that's the lie/story/script I was unconsciously working on. That he'd see me and be irresistibly drawn to me, forsaking all others, that he'd at least talk to me cos it's the third time and it should be his turn now!
I had told myself a story.
And I know we all do. Most particularly, that's what writers do. We lie. And so somehow there's a sense that I owe it to myself to be brutally honest, to strip away those lies when it comes to me me me.
In a way, it's like religion. To me, it says a lot more about intellectual, if not spiritual, evolution when you can see what's fact and what's myth and then choose which to believe for that moment. Right now, I choose to believe the blankness of my own eyes and the deafness of my spiritual ears. Right now, I choose not to believe the myth of religion. I want to see how long I can go without the spiritual safety net of an omniscient benevolent deity, without the comforting fictions of prayer and heaven and hell and a man who may or may not have been born of a virgin and may or may not have risen from the dead.
But to go the other way, in terms of my own twisted myth, I could choose to create an even more elaborate lie. See, in this version Mikey and I came up with, maybe he did notice me. Maybe he did want to come up and say hello. Maybe he was trapped in that conversation and was watching me flirt with all the boys, cuddle with the girls, wanting to come over. Maybe he even planned to say hello later in the night and was disappointed when I left. Maybe, as Mikey said, I was the unattainable one.
Oh how light and precarious does the sugar lie lattice stack up.
So which do I believe? The bare reality or the gorgeous myth?
Sometimes you need a story. - Joss Whedon.