Writing is art. Good writing is good art. Words have often been said to paint pictures. They do. They provide a connection between schemas we have already formed in our minds and what’s being communicated to us—in theory. Think of our brains as an unreliable Internet browser. We interpret code and display it for ourselves:
It gets a lot more complicated than this. Like I said, we’re unreliable. We are full of if-then statements: If you smell pine, then think of Christmas; if you think of Christmas, then remember a happy time; if you think of a happy time, then interpret it as either past, present, or future; if you think of past happiness, then feel sadness; if you feel sad, then drink . . .
This is the way we work. This is why art works. Some people are immune to it because they are coded differently, and we all interpret things in our own way because we are all using different browsers.
Why are we so drawn to the arts? We strive for connections, for greater meaning. This is why we create—to share how we see the world. And we need the help. This world is confusing: more beauty, joy, and happiness than we know how to deal with, but it’s juxtaposed against hatred, evil, and sadness. We search for a greater meaning in this mess.
This is why I create: why I wear the artist hat, why I write music, why I paint, why I write poetry, why I write this blog. Why. It is all about the why; to share meaning.
I feel this desire to make these connections and tell the people in the cave what I have seen, what I know.
This week, I wear the artist hat in its most widely understood meaning: the painter.
Those who know me well know that I have a strong spirit and a love for this world despite all that I know is wrong with it. I find the beauty in the dark. It glows and whispers to me, calling me forward to grab it, to hold it, and to know it. I give it a name, and I give it a voice.
I wrote this poem a few years back when I was lost. I stood firm holding tangled Jenga blocks, teetering and tottering above me, while something pulled at all of the wrong ones. I hurt. I always hurt. It’s the price I pay for always loving, for caring.
The tower of uncertainty and pain made me question my ability to open myself up again. Is the price of splendor paid by the temporary nature of everything of beauty—of the death of joy itself? It is. We know this. We live this. It is all around us:
It gets a lot more complicated than this. Like I said, we’re unreliable. We are full of if-then statements: If you smell pine, then think of Christmas; if you think of Christmas, then remember a happy time; if you think of a happy time, then interpret it as either past, present, or future; if you think of past happiness, then feel sadness; if you feel sad, then drink . . .
This is the way we work. This is why art works. Some people are immune to it because they are coded differently, and we all interpret things in our own way because we are all using different browsers.
Why are we so drawn to the arts? We strive for connections, for greater meaning. This is why we create—to share how we see the world. And we need the help. This world is confusing: more beauty, joy, and happiness than we know how to deal with, but it’s juxtaposed against hatred, evil, and sadness. We search for a greater meaning in this mess.
This is why I create: why I wear the artist hat, why I write music, why I paint, why I write poetry, why I write this blog. Why. It is all about the why; to share meaning.
I feel this desire to make these connections and tell the people in the cave what I have seen, what I know.
This week, I wear the artist hat in its most widely understood meaning: the painter.
Those who know me well know that I have a strong spirit and a love for this world despite all that I know is wrong with it. I find the beauty in the dark. It glows and whispers to me, calling me forward to grab it, to hold it, and to know it. I give it a name, and I give it a voice.
I wrote this poem a few years back when I was lost. I stood firm holding tangled Jenga blocks, teetering and tottering above me, while something pulled at all of the wrong ones. I hurt. I always hurt. It’s the price I pay for always loving, for caring.
The tower of uncertainty and pain made me question my ability to open myself up again. Is the price of splendor paid by the temporary nature of everything of beauty—of the death of joy itself? It is. We know this. We live this. It is all around us:
"North Carolina"
Placed in a box
A favorite pair of jeans
Holes worn at the seams
A cup of coffee
Cold and black
Poured down the sink
At night
Searching the vaccuum bag
For your diamond earring
A rose stem
Put to my mouth
Brightly burning bud
And I had to share it through more than words for all of the browsers that can't display it, so I painted it:
"Brightly Burning Bud"
We find hope in the strangest of places. For me, it was the image of a rose, dying in a magnificent display.
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