Monday, June 21, 2010

Balance and the words spoken

It was said aloud finally, and as I said it, the very idea that it had been said aloud was like losing my virginity; I could never claim to be innocent after the words were spoken. Maybe this is why I have set things a’motion as I have, and maybe the words themselves, festered and fevered with age demanded silently to be set free, and certainly I have put myself in the position to be questioned about this. But the words unspoken would leave the ghosts in the ground, and the moment would pass. A friend would allow this, this moment to pass if that were needed. A good friend would allow the moment to hang in the balance and breathe. That one breath is all it takes, betimes.

We talked about writing and there is no better way to ground me, to settle me into who I am in this, and I do not make the charge of duplicity, no, nothing like that at all. We would speak of writing at great length anyway, for that is what we do. Writers must speak to writers of writing, or they will grow mad, even more mad, and the madness is quieted some by sharing, and this is a good thing. More intimate than sex is the conversation between writers for it is a sharing of far more than a body might hold. Your body can be made a lie, with those you lie with, and it is no mistake there is no difference between those two. But when you tell someone what you are writing, and why you are writing, and you hope for resolution rather than orgasm, well… I cannot explain that to you, and no one else can either. Try it, if you are a virgin. Try explaining the ecstasy of sex to someone else who has never shared that moment, that little death, that rain and thunder, try that, if you are a virgin, and perhaps with another it will make sense to you both. Please allow me to suggest it will not.

Writing is better than sex. It’s deeper. It’s more personal. It’s more exciting. It’s something transcending who we are, and what we are and there is nothing you will ever share with anyone that will mark who you are to each other than when you explore creativity with another person. You wonder why those creative seem to have a higher incident of deviance? Tis because they see sex as something less than their art, something less personal, and something lacking the loss of restraint of intimacy shared with another artist. It’s just sex. It’s not like it really matters. You cannot put it to print. It will never hang in a gallery, or be sung to the world. Well, maybe it will, in some sense, but nothing like you’d suspect.

Do these words call to you? Do you hear my voice? Is your very breath affected by these words? Reach out to me. Take my hand. I will promise you nothing, nothing at all, but yourself. No money, no fame, no published works, no recognition of who or what you are, and I have no idea where those things might come. But I promise you there will never be anything you will feel you have to hide. Rip your soul open at the gut and bleed out on canvas or print, film or paper, or whatever medium holds you. Get so drunk you cannot stand and scream from your knees the need to fashion your life into art and I will pour you another from the cup that has been passed to us. Gods damn but this is good, when it is good. And when it is bad, at its very worst, it still beats being normal.

Even if it kills you. 



Heh. See that? You’ll get a lot of people headed for the door when you talk about sex. Throw in a favorable mention of death and those leaning with leave too. Wicked and fey they will call this, and worse, too. Better get used to that unless you plan to paint apples in bowls, or take nothing but family photographs. Truth be told, and honestly, does any of this sound false to you, one of the very best photographs I have ever seen was of a little girl on the back of a horse, with an older child to one side, looking back, as dust rose from one of the back hooves of the horse. That split second in time, that look back, the dust, the hoof, and all of that in one click of the shutter, it all was all perfect. It takes no small about of prescience to be an artist. You have to see the truth before it happens. You have to know what to create before it is loved or wanted and before it even exists.

When I said the words it felt as if I had fired a gun. The sound came to me and reported the bullet had left the building and no amount of talk or philosophizing or rationalization would recall it. Questions were begged and the answers obvious. What next wasn’t asked because good friends allow you that; you fired a gun and not look at the target, or if the bullet has wounded some innocent unintended. You can come down from that ledge now, Mike, it was never safe up there to begin with. The words said, the damage wither done or not done, the future no more, or no less clouded than before, really, yes?

I feel I owe you an apology of sorts, if all of this makes no sense. It will to very few, but I have to speak to those few for fewer still will speak to them. I have spoken to them before, but never as like this, and to those of you who I lost a few paragraphs ago, I can only say I am sorry you do not understand.

Take Care,
Mike

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