For chaos is itself the womb of the masterpiece that nourishes and makes ripe the essential fecund circumstances for the birth of artistic masterpieces (begging your pardon, I may have already used that word two or three times in this sentence), if not seismic rearrangement of space/time. Nay, such is a veritable sign and irrefutable proof that one does indeed have great talent, and the bigger the mess that accompanies an artist, the greater the talent. Chaos follows genius wherever it is inspired (key word) to go, ever careening and zig-zagging through the unexplored wilds of the universe. The tidy freaks of this world are the common enemy of the artistic impulse. Housekeeping is not a strong suit of the creative types of our species. It is as indelible and compelling as one’s DNA. Disordered personal space is one of the chief signatures of the “artistic temperament.” It simply cannot be “improved” upon or otherwise corrected. First, by way of introduction, you will recall that it is a well known fact that writers and artists are sloppy slobs (a redundancy, so what? It’s called for). Just thinking about all that crap makes me dizzy.īut I’m getting ahead of myself. Coiled like a snake among the lines of these dangerous self-important “books” is the implicit promise to painlessly and effortlessly defenestrate one’s indoor habitat of all points of visual and intellectual interest, rough drafts of potential award-winning novels, important phone numbers, email addresses.
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This despite the rise of those obnoxious “Tidy Up” books purporting to tell one how to clean up and organize every last post-it covered with IMPORTANT ideas for future reference as well as grocery store lists going back at least ten years. Having been the butt of derision and mockery for too many years for my “messy” desk (and office), I believe I have at last found an effective remedy for silencing my many sneering critics once and for all. Is not a world of born - pity poor fleshĪnd trees, poor stars and stones, but never thisĪ hopeless case if - listen: there's a hellĪlbert Einstein’s office Ñ just as the Nobel Prize-winning physicist left it Ñ taken mere hours after Einstein died, Princeton, New Jersey, April 1955. Unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish Your victim (death and life safely beyond) cummings pity this busy monster, manunkind,
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If you need explanation and exegesis of this work of genius, you will find plenty online. I hope this will loosen my tongue, unchain my words and enable me to write regularly here again.
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I’m finally going to get it off my chest (out of my head) and share it here. One particular poem by one of the giants of modern poetry has been haunting me as I watched and read the news. They are our cultural treasury and storehouse of the wisdom of the ages and they codify and communicate what we need to know in the most beautiful and memorable way. I myself fell silent before the onslaught of unsavory and apparently alarming national events, confining my anger and outrage to my own mind.Īt any rate, times like this–I don’t know ’bout you–but I fall back on the great poets.
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Some simply gagged and swallowed their tongues. Many resorted to ineffectual ranting and raving. The last several months have been a challenge to our abilities to verbalize and speak clearly and coherently.