The Life Words Breathe

Let's face one Reality: Words are crazy. Language is one of the hardest things to call one's self mastering, and I would daresay not many people would honestly profess to know the exact words to use, under all circumstances, to exact the desired effect on the intended hearer. No matter how good you are, the fact is that there is always a point of hesitancy that comes to all of us, either because we question which word most accurately conveys the sentiments we want to relay, or else we doubt that the selected word or words will (even if it is correct), once uttered, not (somehow) change mid-air, or mid-sentence, on the email, or text message. We don't want our shouting to be heard, even though we are being passive-aggressive. Or somehow our passion doesn't translate for one reason or another.

The truth is that words do seem to have a mystical existence, that is completely separate and apart from the author penning them. We really can't escape that. Some philosophers have conjectured and speculated that humans are incapable of adequately conveying the pure essence of what happens to us in words. Literally, meaning gets "lost in translation."

But isn't that like what happens when light travels along a vessel: Some of its intensity is absorbed, dimenished along the way? The only thing one can do, then, is to do the best we can to create an instrument that helps retain as much of the original strength as possible so that it can be useful. That's the aim of capturing solar energy and harnessing the power of lasers, isn't it?

So it is with words. To me, our whole task of living is to make use - make sense, if you will - of what happens to us, to our world. And words play a major role in how we COMMUNICATE significance. Words are universal and most accessible. But so is art. As abstract, and jumbled, and as hard-to-figure as it sometimes is, Art, too, remains a universal language.

So what if you mixed Word with Art...What do you get? WordArt. Or poetry, the representation of thoughts and ideas in a meaningful, yet abstract manner. This is not Webster-Merriam's definition of poetry but I believe it does sum up the significance of Poetry. Poetry has the potential to unlock the window to the soul. It has the ability to speak [of] Life, literally, or to speak [of] Death. Regardless of which the given topic may do at a particular moment, in a particular circumstance, poetry conveys the authors sentiment on the issue. The author gives the words license to breathe meaning into what was once only a glimmer of an idea, a concept. Once it is written down or spoken, it travels through time and space and interacts with circumstance. And creates relevance.

But wait: relevance is only bestowed by permission of the hearer, the reader, the person on the receiving end. Our task, as writer ends where purpose and relevance picks up at. Phew! What a relief that is!

So, Why Poetry?

I have asked myself this very question umpteen times. Why poetry? What is it that is so magnetic, so irresistable about writing poetry that, even against my will, I am so compelled to compose poems that, should I miss a day of writing (of some sort), I feel as though I have somehow cheated myself of what I should have been doing?

To no avail, I have tried my hand at writing short stories, novels, novellas -- even turning to photography, calligraphy, sketching, using pastels to use my hands as creative outlets. But, try as I may, I never could get out of the habit of journaling, which is where I usually found myself digressing into a singular moment of creative inspiration, yielding a solitary poem (sometimes two).

It's almost as though my poetry resulted from all of the pages-upon-pages of writing that I had previously done on just-about-everything, and usually nothing of consequence, at all. But at the end of the "diarrhea of the pen," if you will, I was left with a distilled and complete "thought." A mature, and perfect, little gem is what I would call them, even though often I didn't quite know what to make of them, nor could I ever truly "own" them. Don't get me wrong, good or bad, every poem that I have ever written, I have penned of my own imagining, inspiration, my own Self. But I have come to understand those writers and artists who have spoken of their work as having a life of its own, separate from that which the author intended at its inception.

And so I guess part of why I have this inclination towards the poetry is the act of writing poetry itself, as a process and not quite so much even the final product. If that makes any sense...You see, my experience with writing poetry has been one of utter and complete catharsis at any given time or moment. I mean a totally "cleansing" experience that, at least for one moment, provided a glimmer of clarity about some even minute aspect of Life and what it meant to go through the act of living on this earth. This is what made the poetry writing process worth the trouble, quaint a practice though it may be -- at least from the point of view of the critics who question the value of poetry. Writing poetry demands a succinctness that is perfected only as a person evolves as a sensing, and feeling soul. Even then, one never quite knows what the end product will be.

I cannot express how many times I have penned a poem, almost exactly as I conceived it in my mind's eye, only to see it on paper, then change a period to a semi-colon and smile, pleasantly surprised, at the final draft. How do you convey what it feels like to be absolutely amazed and exhilarated by words becoming their own "congregation," taking on its own meaning and relevance and significance, out of, seemingly, insignificant and random occurrences that you, as an individual, have taken in? It never ceases to amaze me how challenging it can be to use the social constructs we call language to build a moment, a thought, or to depict a scene or emotion on the bark of a tree (paper). Or on a computer screen, as it were.

But this is why I write poetry. This is why I Believe in poetry. Because I am always humbled by the absolute honesty that results from the process. Even when what I am writing is not the Truth, as far as my reality is concerned. And for this reason, I believe the cathartic and transcendental nature of the act of writing poetry makes it so important for us to encourage our children -- and our stressed out adults, and our soldiers coming back from war, and those seeking inner redemption -- to write what is within them. Often we don't say what we intend to all that well. Sometimes we can't really say it out loud to anyone. Poetry is distilled reality -- and I say that is worth all the struggle we must endure to finally realize that exquisite literary experience that tickles our curiosity and excites and lights up all areas of our convoluted brains!

Art 80s-style!

So...

Piggybacking on yesterday's topic, I would just like to add an observation I made later on that evening. I was watching those "Top 1-hit Wonders of the 80s" episodes on MTV or VH-1 TV (I can't remember which station it came on, at this moment -- which in itself was kinda sad commentary for the programming offered on cable TV late Saturday afternoons) and I was absolutely amazed at just how many great songs I remembered from the 80s! It was like a happy flashback to classic standards, as well as quirky music and tunes that flooded my mind with cool memories.

Now, when I was listening to the music, it never occurred to me that these musical geniuses, known even if only for one tune (at that time), might not have lasted in their industry into the next decade. The tunes were so catchy. Infectious, even. Surely, they had discovered a gold mine by tapping into the youthful market of pop music! How could they not have?

Yet interview after interview, yielded ghosts of popularity who confessed that they had followed their art to a deserted and lonely place -- only to discover that they should have played more to what their "fans" wanted. In short, because it would have been more profitable for them. Following their dreams, their vision of how their musical "art" should have been done, had led them down a path of "irrelevance."

But they did it anyway.

And I had to think to myself: Is their a message in this for us to gain from it? Some proverbial wisdom, perhaps? Maybe, don't follow your dreams? Or, don't take that once-in-a-lifetime risk, whether it's for fame or whatever else your passion may be, because it may not pan out over the long haul? I don't know but I came away with the experience of hearing them talk about their experiences with the conviction that the wisdom I should gain from their stories is that we SHOULD, by all means, take the risks! I know the shows format kinda poked fun at the now-aged, "has-beens" of the industry, but I couldn't help but respect them for giving it a shot. One caveat, though: Never underestimate the value of keeping a strong backup plan in play so that you have something to fall back on during those lean years. (You never know how long the drought may last!)

As it pertains to art, I guess my position would be that kids still need to be taught how to use different media to communicate, and the school setting (in particular, the public school) is the place where it should be fostered. And not only kids, because most of us, adults, enjoy going to the museum, or hearing a good song,experiencing someone sharing (hopefully) a talent of some sort. Creativity (which is really what "art" represents) should be Encouraged, but true expression should not necessarily depend on "fads" and what "everybody else" is doing, should it? Most great works have only been recognized after years had passed and society had a chance to recognize exactly what "greatness" they had been in the midst of.

I think our individuality makes our art relevent. The dilemma comes when you ask, then, if, 20 years from now, the artwork represents a social commentary for our era or if it merely was an outlying statistic. A fluke.

I think we all have to honestly ask ourselves if what we are doing is really "relevent." Are you doing something "relevent?" Or is it even really about relevence, as opposed to us just using our time here on earth well? Hmmmm...

Hello, cyber world! I'm here!

Never in a million years would I have thought I'd actually follow through on doing this: starting a blog, that is. My marketing agent (if you want to call him that - actually, my brother who emailed me a list of things I should do to promote my two books ([grunt] "Do this." Whatever...) suggested that I choose something to talk about regarding my poetry. And, really, there was just something about the idea of writing in a quasi-dynamic environment that mysteriously appealed to me.

Not that I don't like writing, because there's nothing further from the truth than that. I LOVE writing (I'm talking about creatively or at least substantively (journaling)). I do it nearly everyday.

But...I have always faced a dilemma when it came to promoting my own artwork. And my own business, for that matter...Which is probably what led to my ultimate decision to close it down late last July. But that's another story, for another time.

Today, I tell you why I started this blog. Yes, brace yourself! I will now reveal why I was compelled to take up doing a task that will probably consume the majority of my free time (maybe...) from now until, well, whenever I close this down. The answer is: I wanted to say something.

It's just that simple.

Originally, I contemplated loftier ideas on how to intellectualize what I do creatively, but I write poetry and some people don't get that. Some people, like a friend of mine said(and, yes, I still call her a "friend"), wouldn't be interested in what I had to offer. When I told her I was thinking about doing a blog on the role that literature played in reflecting our social consciousness, she resolutely gave me a firm head shake (to indicate her disapproval) -- by the way, did I tell you she is very resolute about convictions? Very flippantly, I informed her that this was why only cool people, like you, reader -- not her -- would be allowed to participate in my very important conversation on ideas, and ideals, and philosophy and art, and how it shapes and reflects our current society. It would be, I determined, a conversation held among the elitest of elite, the thinkers, the people who gathered at the coffee house and discussed politics, and business, and rational thinking, and yes, even romantic notions, like love, and poetry, and artistic tendencies. It did not bother me one bit that she wouldn't go to my blog, I assured her, because I "respected" her right to be a discriminating consumer with her time.

Okay, so, yeah, that sounded a little flippant, maybe a little egotistical, on my part, I suppose, but I viewed her comment as one similar to that of a person discussing why he or she would not purchase my knives (yes, I tried my hand at selling kitchen knives for a student internship in undergrad): they simply were not convinced that what I was offering was relevent to them. How selfish of her! How selfish of THEM! Surely they knew that I would never offer them anything that I, myself, would not want!

The reality, however, is that my friend's comment brought to light something that I, as an artist, struggle with daily. And I know that others have dealt with as well. It's an awkwardness, a "not-quite-fitting-in" that artists face and must overcome and settle within themselves that is at play here.

So the thought for today is this: Is art (the created), in its purest sense (as it is intended), for the consumer (the public), or for the artist (the creator)? Is "art" supposed to be cathartic for the artist, the one compelled to pen that play, or poem, or story, or produce that film -- even though it may not turn out to be a blockbuster at the movie theater? Or is it supposed to be seen by the whole world, in whatever sense the term "whole" applies? Was it created for the "whole" world, in the first place? Just thoughts...