Engaged to defend my apparent defence of art against a "paucity" in the response that I quoted, I think I dissipate my point. My latter entry, though I come around to some conclusions that respect my aim, can't help but be an attempt to redress a straw man. And so, for clarity: I don't believe that the trouble with the world today is the dearth of the genius works of art that I would coax out of stifled artists for the good of all mankind. The focus is off. I do believe that art and creativity can save the world, and I stand by what I am trying to describe in the two posts below, but let me try to put it better:
When I say "thank you for etching on the earth" [in the ramblings below - i'm talking about thanking you, or anyone, for the poems you make. for whatever it is that you do and are; for "making things"] it's not unlike when I say to my friends, "thank you for telling somebody. I'm glad you did," it's not unlike when I say to my friends, "thank you for nourishing yourself because I can't do it for you and I'm desperate for you to be okay." Or if I were to say to my friends, "thank you for blowing out the candle before going to sleep because it is not ok that you could be lost to or damaged in a fire."
Yes, it's also "thank you for this masterpiece; thank you for writing this song; thank you for designing this idea." But the violence I'm talking about stifles whole people, not just the poems I romantically want to rescue. The reason it's easy to get on a tangent about peace from here is that the work of unstifling individuals must be a lens in the setting of sights on peace building.
This link is to a talk by a woman by the name of Edith Ackermann discussing creativity, learning and play. It is fantastic and I highly recommend it. I discovered it in the middle of some night, probably while feeling depressed about how difficult it is to learn about what I want to learn about by following some route of academic accreditation. (I learn about it myself in the middle of the night on the Internet.)
In it, she quotes the research her mentor, the well-known developmental theorist Jean Piaget: if you want children to internalise, that is, to learn from their actions, to become good thinkers, you must let them externalise what they think.
"If you project out," she says, "if you build, or re-enact something based on ideas that you have, you enter into a dialogue with your own expressions and enactments, and it allows you to progress."
This dialogue is what I am speaking of. Not only is it the product, it is the means to a product. If we do want inspiration, if we want human beings with a sense of self-efficacy and of imagination so that we can evolve in the beautiful ways whose promise or possibility moves us, even makes it bearable, for some of us, to apprehend the pain and injustice of people, then we need to nurture this. Not only in children but in everyone.
Art, these "poems" of which I speak, are these dialogues. They are creative connections which, as Ackermann says, are what allow us to progress! My entreaty isn't just for the poems - am I making sense yet? It's that the creation of poems is an antidote. Individual and exceptional.
Closing with another poem.
If I had my way it would be examined and understood in classes where people are trying to understand (and/or teach) the point of poetry.. It's not about the fucking prestige of the poet. Really, I'm on the same rant I've been trying to tease apart all year long. Can we not see the value in collective wonder at the human experience and expression of it; the experience of expression?
I found this in a café and have copied it as accurately as I can. If we like, we can assume its author launched herself off of a Green Day lyric. Oh fucking well. Is it an excellent poem? This is where I resent my tangent in my latter blog. It's not about some objective measure of quality. I don't buy that. There is value in what it does. It is an excellent poem.
Do you have the time
to dust me off and fix my rhyme
cuz this stanzic manic tetramic
is makin my brain itch
the venue is closin soon
they're dusting flippin chairs n
workin the broom
he won't drink
when I tell him to
he wont drink
its gettin late
he's gotta piss
I'm drinkin fast
Its not too late
I hope I last
the accordion rings
Softly, I wish I could sing
thinkin too hard I guess
parents never taught me
only accepting behaviour that lasts.
So what, so now, it's done, he's finished
his glass, I'm done being a conditioned
punk-ass, so fuck u all, now that its through
fuck it all, it's only me and u.
I love this poem. This has practically leapt out of this person. Emotion desperate. And can't you feel it? Am I communicating something here? Does the inherent value in this make sense to anyone?
The title of this blog, for those who can't find the buried revelations in my loquations, refers to the imperative, not just the "things".
The things are almost less interesting - or at least, there's no guarantee I'll be interested in any given content; but the dialogue and the possibility offered for growth is what it's all fucking about.
Imagine if you never ever talked about any of your shit?
Or maybe you don't: Don't you feel it rattling around inside you like some intractable caged reality?
How is that not violent? Again, I am working with a definition (which has satisfied and inspired me) of violence as being that which stifles potential... the opposite of nurturing. Nurturing, which is always nurturing potential, is what peace is. This is why I'm so obsessed with possibility.
This is what I am trying to say.
