“Dissected Creation”

An act of creation inspired by passion— that is art.  Inspiration is required, but most importantly passion is essential for an artist to be an artist and art to be art.  Without that enflamed need to create something expressive the “art” becomes nothing more than another processed poster on the market whose worth is measured only by its monetary value.  Much of what we call art belongs to this shallow art category and I don’t think any such works truly qualifies as art if we’re looking at the essence of the concept.

Art is life.  It is pain.  It is release.  It is a battle, sometimes gruesome in its creation, which the individual undertakes to make a statement of intent that life is worthwhile so long as there is a way in which one can express the tragedy that inevitably accompanies survival.  It is a mark, a declaration, however small, of existence, a tribute to the beauty within humanity.  It is possibility.

There is no purity in art.  That is perhaps one of its most intriguing qualities.  Art does not flow free without effort and it is not unflawed in its making.  The artist must give blood and emotion to imbue this new thing with passion.  And that is not always a pretty process.  Not everything created is attractive, nor are the driving desires that created it always positive.  The ugly and cruel is art just the same as rolling, pastel landscapes and intimate, detailed portraits are considered art.  Humans are creatures of both light and dark dispositions as is our art.

As I said, art is life.  And life is…

War.  Or perhaps the art of war.

I think there must be nothing more lovely than this life at the point of death, for that is life in its rarest and most exquisite form: graceful, sumptuous, cruel, and efficient.  And the world, I think, is the most perfect culmination of art and sacrifice, pain and breath, and I'm so glad to have lived in the beautiful divisions of its torture.

"He slept nowhere near mars," she said to me, as if it made all the difference.  And maybe to Jillian it did, but I'd heard this story too many times to really listen anymore.  "I thought he was something," she continued, "you know, something really special.  He just had this light in him sometimes that everyone noticed; they had to... it was one of those types of things.  He was one of those types of people, you know?  Leah?  Leah, do you know what I mean?"  I'd started to drift off at this point, as always, and didn't really know what Jillian meant, but I nodded to her just the same.  Besides she didn't really care if I was listening, or what my thoughts were on the matter of her late husband.  She just needed to talk... about him, about herself, about them, and it seemed I was, unfortunately for me, the only one willing to let her talk.  So I sighed as I always did, listening only a little bit. 

"He seemed so perfect, Leah, he really did.  I knew he was going places, you know, great places, and I wanted to be with him through it all.  I wanted him to take me to the stars, thought he could do it too.  I thought he could do anything, I really did.  We had this little thing we would do.  We used to plan out trips that we were going to take one day, map out all the exotic places we would see.  His favorite was space.  He was so sure one day he'd see the stars up close.  He told me once, so confident in himself, that he'd make it to Mars."  Jillian snorted loudly, and I jumped in surprise.  "Imagine that," she continued unperturbed, "the arrogance of that man!  Make it to Mars, my foot!  The furthest he ever made was the curb outside Ricki T's bar, that asshole!  That lazy jerk was proclaimed a shining success before he'd ever accomplished anything, and as a result he never really felt the need to actually do anything at all.  I suppose everyone's a little bit to blame for that, but I just wish I could go back and do it all over again.  If only I'd just done it all myself.  I would've gone places," Jillian said defiantly, "I would've made it to Mars!"

Let me know if you can touch any facet of Chagall or Dali or if you've ever glimpsed the core of any debate Socrates ever raised.  If you can see color as a piece of something holy, than maybe one day we'll meet.

I'm in a writing funk.  This is all I've been able to write for the past two weeks...

Somehow the weather kept reminding him of the emptiness in his life of late.  Yesterday the gloomy drizzle mirrored the third year anniversary of her death.  Last week it was his loneliness being offset by the glorious sunshine.  Today he felt his mortality in the rustling of the dead leaves, lush and green once, like all youth, until winter and time had set upon them turning them into gold and then the decay of brown.  The life span of a leaf is spent shining, but achieving nothing.  He felt much like a leaf today, the slow burn of time transmogrifying the lustrous chocolate of his hair into thinning grays and the tan life of his flesh into pale even translucent skin that sagged with a lifetime of wear.  Time had even clouded over the gilded luminescence that lay at the heart of Charlie Hayworth's shockingly green eyes...

Yep, that's it, one lousy paragraph with no direction.

“Thankfully, the artist wore a strait-jacket and looked both ways to make sure no one was watching,” you said, knowing I wasn’t really listening.  It took me more than a moment to catch what you’d just said... or what you hadn't. 
“You’re annoying, I hope you know that,” I replied sourly.  You only smiled at me.  It was all you had to do and you knew it.  
You're always playing with me, making sure I'm at your level.  You always try to get me riled up, knowing just how to get to me and how to just as easily calm me down again. 
I smiled back at you.  It was all I could do. 
I'm helpless when it comes to you, and we both know it.

I wish I knew some defense for this ineffectuality you instill in me.  I wish I didn't need you like this. 

I wish you needed me.