Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art. ~Dylan Thomas, 1939 "In My Craft or Sullen Art"
riting, for me, has not been an overly difficult process but rather is one which takes an large chunk of energy (Physical, Mental, Emotional and Spiritual). It is just as demanding labor wise as if I were a blacksmith pounding out and shaping the heated metal upon an anvil. My tools may look a bit different, but the energy is the same which is poured into it and the feeling of satisfaction with the process varies not from the creation but rather my expectations upon myself and my own view of the work. I have certainly not profited or been paid well (if at all) by my writing nor have really expected to be other than in a daydreaming sort of fashion. Yet, I am satisfied with the Alchemical process it has achieved in my life and continues to do so. If I neglect writing for too long, I feel the shift in my life and it is always toward that of deep soul loss. It is the absence of enchantment when the words and stories do not unfold. If they do not manifest in the waking world, they will manifest in the dream world. It is a life walking the line between the worlds of what one might call the mortal realms and the otherworld, that underlaying world which is the infrastructure and supporting world for this one. Mythically we have assigned it to the realm of the Gods/Goddesses and other creatures, a line we can not see but that is inevitably there and crossable on both sides. In one movement we decree one insane and in another one divine yet the mechanism of their encounter is the same. The monk becomes the holy man and the office worker or homeless the schizophrenic. The world of the artists turns these notions on their head, for the wise become ignorant and what we know we do not know. The enlightened become the unenlightened at the moment of realization. The human race places itself on the edge of extinction and then reacts 1) Total denial even as the ground falls away beneath them, 2) Rages and questions how they got to this point in the first place. Those who fall outside the two reactions are marginalized as insignificant, insane, extreme, degenerate, undeserving, the eccentric or the Artist.
ntering into another year there is always the expectation things are going to be better or different than the prior one. In some sense this is a reasonable expectation as everything is subject to change, no matter how fundamentalist we wish it to be otherwise. Perception changes, knowledge changes and awareness changes. It is a part of being human and integral to the human lifespan both as a species and as an individual. It is also natural for us to resist change because it is a step into the unknown, a shaking of our world view that we are not the subject experts in a world that can easily quench our life at a moments notice, excluding our participatory actions to help that along. We are left with the thought there has to be more, an unconscious acknowledgement and call to that infrastructure we can not see but are aware of, and even a consideration there may not be more and yet...we seek. But we seek with an agenda already set, a set of assumptions already in place which will be tested repeatedly throughout our lives and most likely will change. This is not a call for resolution, but rather a call for living as humans who live in a world fraught with paradox and magic, which constantly pushes us to explore both the inner and outer realms. To live artistically, mythically. There is no question how to do this, the Artist comes by it naturally just as they breathe, eat and sleep. As the human species we just have to let it happen, open ourselves up and take the risk of transformation into a better person than we already are. It is something we will have to work for, a fearless moral inventory if you will but my experience is the human race is incapable of subjecting themselves to a fearless moral inventory and those who do claim to fully partake in it do so half heartedly or just enough to "get by" and not effect any change. The harsh truth is the world we live in to day does not reflect the mythic framework of the underlying world we have built on. We weigh death more heavily than we do life, so much so we will give death sovereignty in hopes it will leave us in peace.
ut for the lovers, their arms round the griefs of the ages, who pay no praise or wages. This is not a call for the "Hippy life" of unrestrained love, total pursuit of pleasure in any and all ways. Although there is certainly nothing at all wrong with the idea of "Make Love, Not War." and "Let there be Peace on earth and Let it Began with me." These are certainly sentiments which have been rejected time and again with continued, repeatable destructive results. The ultimate irony of a Nation whose legacy arose from being a victim of genocide to now engaging in those same ideologies that victimized it and in turn chastising the worlds protest of such, can not be lost on the global and local communities. Especially against an already known terrorist organization who just doesn't care about any innocent lives and has nothing to lose in perpetuating the violence. Neither side really has the desire to end the conflict for humanitarian purposes, but simply because it is bad Press which they are willing to endure, and continue it for as long as they can. No meaningful permanent solution will ever be reached, even if it means total extinction. It will be the will of Allah/God that not only Jew and Muslim shall perish but the whole of humanity in the process. This from the region giving us the Sciences, Writing, Rumi, The Psalms, The Great Libraries and the Dervishes. In return their own people buried it all under the sands and built over it, hoping it would never surface again. It inspires no faith in humanity let alone the nations involved who repeatedly show any faith in them is misplaced and unwarranted. Yet, this is the world artists must step into, an alien world where pain and suffering is constantly chosen over the opportunity to create a peaceful world. A world of hidden agendas and shadow assassins. What use to them is the Artistic world which holds an aesthetic and humanitarian value for even the humblest member? Human life is expendable, a necessary evil to be penned and culled as convenient.
erry Pratchett once wrote, "We have to start believing in the little lies before we believe the bigger ones...Justice, Mercy." (Hogfather). I don't know if I fully agree with this, but I certainly see his point and for the artist it becomes an illustration of walking in both worlds (that of humanity and the mythic-which supports the world of humanity). As a pacifist, ironically I find myself longing to take up a weapon and confront death itself who has stolen so much from me and exact the same price from it. Knowing full well I can not escape this destiny of leaving the world. What would I achieve if I succeeded in making Death pay my price? What would it change? Why should I go gentle into the night and not Rage! Rage! as Dylan told his father? Why should I capitulate to the very thing which threatens to steal everything from me and place me in an endless loop of reincarnation or a heavenly paradise where I will be expected to be happy even if my loved ones are not present? And if there is nothing, that is certainly no incentive or something to look forward to. Yet, I am also enamored with Sir Simon de Centerville's version, "Far away beyond the pine-woods,' he answered, in a low dreamy voice, 'there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold, crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers." ~Oscar Wilde, The Canterville Ghost. What a shambles we have left the earth in, and if we have our way the heavens and everything in-between as well. As an author I have no illusions I will deeply impact the lives here, other then adding to the grains of sand in the cosmic wheel. If some amount of suffering I lift I will be happy, but it will not be through bloodshed or violence which I denounce completely. Give me an inkwell and pen and a library full of books waiting to be read and discovered, looking out on an extensive field and garden filled with forests and flowers, flowing streams and waterfalls surrounded by snow capped mountains, and the air full of magic.
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