Creation is Reaction, or, I wrote a weird poem-essay thing.
I refuse to judge this for its literary value, but I was trying to give a voice to the desperation, okay. Srsly. The world is too dynamic to contain within an organ roughly 80 grams and the size of a pomegranate.
~
Every moment of my life I am missing something. It is
inevitable that some things are left undone and undreamt, but why must I be so
aware of the lack? Is there art somewhere whose conception I am failing to grasp
and this potential undiscovery is making me cry, making me weep? If only
I could write a song. If only I could write every moment onto history. There is nothing
that I will leave unwritten.
What is a song? What makes the music an insidious usurpation against your
will that suddenly you breathe only in tune, with the tempo and rhythm and beat?
Why do songs exist - to steal us of our breaths? Because there are too many
levels between low notes and high notes that they somehow have to be structured into
mechanisms which will let us appreciate them? Where does the world go,
when a song ends? How do we turn off a radio?
In that poem, what secret resides? To each poem: what made you, what caused you to get written?
Is there a driving force behind all of literature? Is literature a driving force? Is it all merely
an ouroboros and there is no point in trying to make sense of its heads and tails? To a poet:
why must you arrange words like so such that the sentiments are novel, the phrases unexpected, the
words clear and stellar and piercing? Where does that heart come from, that beats
behind all the unusual placements of vocabularies?
And I want to know, as well - beyond the lines in the fabric and the patterns on the cloth,
what danger lays structure to the image? Fashion is a little weapon sheathed quite suddenly
behind the immediate design. Not everything that transpires between the fabric and the eye
Is fashion, is beautiful; but somewhere along the path from both to the mind, a message
gets written, and that when you least expect it. Image is translated into appreciation,
]but where could it have come from, whose message is it? What secrets drive this art?
And a drawing remains so completely untouchable behind each of its lines: someone else’s -
another person, or yourself, a yourself different from the exact self whose
hand and heart and mind and cunning went into that action of drawing a while ago, a day ago,
a different self ago. Why is it so impossible to preserve the present? It is incomplete in the way
that a mental landscape cannot be caged within the definitions that vision understands;
but no matter; what matters is the trial and the error - but, still, the present stays behind the sheen of
the drawing and it is impossible to replicate or to perfectly qualify. You can never define it
too much, not even if you make it a drawing beyond what can be seen; nothing is
as impossible as undoing the endless progression forward.
Is that why art has been created, to give voice and meaning and lay-out to this un-nameable,
uncontainable, inexhaustible change so characteristic of life? Is change
the driving force behind all these human creations?
God would not have been moved by change to create - but He is the divine,
and the ultimate does not work according to our finite channels of existence.
That is why there is change all around us, and that is why we feel we must react to it,
tossed on impossible improbabilities. We are finite beings living in a place of endless conjugation.
We must react, and our creativity is the reaction.
There is still too much of life to live. Attempting to do so would mean madness, and beyond the madness,
an understanding so piercing it de-individualizes you. Your point of view, your own way of
looking at the world and misjudging it and misrepresenting it and appreciating it and violating it
and loving it and giving voice to the messages you choose to see within it - this is the essence
of being human. If you were to be fully attuned to the unchanging, the ultimate - then there
would not be any change anymore, there wouldn’t be reaction anymore, there would be
no human creativity. The end of humanity is the end of art. Creation, as we know it.
What has not been changed in this moment? What has not merited a reaction?
What drives your reaction? Rearrange the reaction and you find, creation. Silence and
death would mean essentially the same things.
Rage, rage, they say - and by all means. Passivity destroys passion. Chaos is
conducive to creativity. Adaptivity let us survive, but evolution found inspiration
in its inadequacy.
We - us living, dying things - cannot be contained.
~
Every moment of my life I am missing something. It is
inevitable that some things are left undone and undreamt, but why must I be so
aware of the lack? Is there art somewhere whose conception I am failing to grasp
and this potential undiscovery is making me cry, making me weep? If only
I could write a song. If only I could write every moment onto history. There is nothing
that I will leave unwritten.
What is a song? What makes the music an insidious usurpation against your
will that suddenly you breathe only in tune, with the tempo and rhythm and beat?
Why do songs exist - to steal us of our breaths? Because there are too many
levels between low notes and high notes that they somehow have to be structured into
mechanisms which will let us appreciate them? Where does the world go,
when a song ends? How do we turn off a radio?
In that poem, what secret resides? To each poem: what made you, what caused you to get written?
Is there a driving force behind all of literature? Is literature a driving force? Is it all merely
an ouroboros and there is no point in trying to make sense of its heads and tails? To a poet:
why must you arrange words like so such that the sentiments are novel, the phrases unexpected, the
words clear and stellar and piercing? Where does that heart come from, that beats
behind all the unusual placements of vocabularies?
And I want to know, as well - beyond the lines in the fabric and the patterns on the cloth,
what danger lays structure to the image? Fashion is a little weapon sheathed quite suddenly
behind the immediate design. Not everything that transpires between the fabric and the eye
Is fashion, is beautiful; but somewhere along the path from both to the mind, a message
gets written, and that when you least expect it. Image is translated into appreciation,
]but where could it have come from, whose message is it? What secrets drive this art?
And a drawing remains so completely untouchable behind each of its lines: someone else’s -
another person, or yourself, a yourself different from the exact self whose
hand and heart and mind and cunning went into that action of drawing a while ago, a day ago,
a different self ago. Why is it so impossible to preserve the present? It is incomplete in the way
that a mental landscape cannot be caged within the definitions that vision understands;
but no matter; what matters is the trial and the error - but, still, the present stays behind the sheen of
the drawing and it is impossible to replicate or to perfectly qualify. You can never define it
too much, not even if you make it a drawing beyond what can be seen; nothing is
as impossible as undoing the endless progression forward.
Is that why art has been created, to give voice and meaning and lay-out to this un-nameable,
uncontainable, inexhaustible change so characteristic of life? Is change
the driving force behind all these human creations?
God would not have been moved by change to create - but He is the divine,
and the ultimate does not work according to our finite channels of existence.
That is why there is change all around us, and that is why we feel we must react to it,
tossed on impossible improbabilities. We are finite beings living in a place of endless conjugation.
We must react, and our creativity is the reaction.
There is still too much of life to live. Attempting to do so would mean madness, and beyond the madness,
an understanding so piercing it de-individualizes you. Your point of view, your own way of
looking at the world and misjudging it and misrepresenting it and appreciating it and violating it
and loving it and giving voice to the messages you choose to see within it - this is the essence
of being human. If you were to be fully attuned to the unchanging, the ultimate - then there
would not be any change anymore, there wouldn’t be reaction anymore, there would be
no human creativity. The end of humanity is the end of art. Creation, as we know it.
What has not been changed in this moment? What has not merited a reaction?
What drives your reaction? Rearrange the reaction and you find, creation. Silence and
death would mean essentially the same things.
Rage, rage, they say - and by all means. Passivity destroys passion. Chaos is
conducive to creativity. Adaptivity let us survive, but evolution found inspiration
in its inadequacy.
We - us living, dying things - cannot be contained.