(Posted January 11, 1010)
Time. For the writer, painter, sculptor, crafter, poet, musician, whatever; for those of us who fight with our muse during the dark and forlorn days and nights of winter; there is never enough of it. It’s not that the creative soul believes it should be spared, that somehow, it should be immortal. No, it’s not that, at least, that’s what we who create music, words, poems, folk songs, art, and architecture tell ourselves in our deepest moments of doubt, when the muse, her golden hair and ruby lips beckoning from the far reaches of our psyches taunts us, teases us, to try for greatness. Of course, that’s exactly what we’re trying for. Immortality, or at least, a brief extension of our mortality, is the goal, isn’t it? In short, aren’t we seeking remembrance; not our remembrance of those who’ve gone before, but the remembrance of us by others? Isn’t that why we sit at our desk typing words on a screen or stand in a cold and forbidding warehouse splashing paint on bare canvas?
Oh, there are those purists who will rail, “No, no, Mark. That’s not it at all. I write/paint/sculpt to create beauty. To bring form to the rhythms of my soul.” Perhaps. But be honest, ye fellow artisans. Is not, at least some small part of you, crying out, demanding to be noticed by your fellow man for your artistic endeavors? Is not, some small kernel of your being seeking deification of your effort?And because we who create cannot not create, our minds are constantly churning, constantly inventing, constantly envisioning the next project. And the next. And the next, as if, though our brains understand that we are finite, our souls and our hearts plunge on in art, as if we are infinite beings, with plenty of time. Time for all our dreams and aspirations to come to fruition in new books, collections of poems, paintings, and the like.
Time. Ah yes. We live by it. We create by it. And ultimately, we are stilled by it.
Peace.
Mark
