Cathartistic Talent

I had a discussion with some associates of mine today about "what is art" and other such examinations; the conversation basically achieved nothing, but it got me thinking, and thinking is the fuel for ... well, whatever it is I'm doing here, which is pretty firmly established as not being art, whatever one's definition of art may be.

I'm not going to wax poetic on the meaning of art, or what makes something "art" versus "a waste of canvas" or whatever else. My thoughts on the matter aren't really relevant to anyone, since I'm not an artist or an overpaid art critic or a magazine columnist upon whom the world waits with baited breath to know the next genius splatterpainting themselves across the landscape of Our Great Nation. I'm an essayist, a socio-generic commentator, an examiner of the finer points of our own faltering ridiculousness, and I maintain that essays are not a form of art, even if they are a form of expression. My ever-so-mediocre talents don't permit me the narcissism of calling myself an artist, nor does my feeble witlessness echo with the tides of time like a significant zeitgeist burned into the collective memory of those that were there.

Now, this causes me to wonder, to really think on what it is I'm doing by chroncling my relatively unwarranted discourse on the meaning of life, the universe, and nothing in particular. I muse for the sake of musing, I think, but to what end? I'm told there are a handful of people who, for reasons beyond my ken, trudge through the mire of my twisted linguistic ambulation; it's possible, perhaps, that some unfortunate soul from among their number does so from their own perverted masochistic desire rather than the sense of obligation impressed upon my friends and family to whom I've passed the notion that I write at all anymore. So, perhaps I'm writing for them, whoever they may be; perhaps I'm trying to provoke thought in some individual somewhere who might take that thought and, like so many before them, turn that thought to action, and forge a brighter new tomorrow by way of inspiration gleaned from betwixt the rubble of my mental landscape.

I used to think I wrote to chronicle things, to leave evidence that I had once existed and known myself to think on things that I considered relevant or important; this, though, is too arrogant -- and I'd be claiming credit, whatever the case, if that was my end. I'm rather distinctly trying to separate the identity of my physical self from that of my online presence, and here, I'm just spouting ideas for the sake of it, spreading my own personal brand of propaganda, the end result of which I couldn't possibly imagine. Long story short, I'm pretty sure I'm not in this for the fame and glory. Because essayists are so often lauded with praise and seared into the public memory to be regarded as heroes for generations to come.

Am I right?

So, that leads me to a conclusion that there is no conclusion. There is no real reason that I scribble my brainwaves across the digital framework of our greatest achievement and biggest failure, the internet. It's without form or function that I give gravity to my own meandering internal monologue, breathing to life some swan-song of far-from-epic neural activity and hoping to cast some gimpse of that which I might lean on to define myself as an entity separate from any potential audience, some vain hope that someday, long after my passing, the thoughts I've collected into my fluctuating journal of the mundane will blossom into the brain of a worthwhile philosopher and bring about something -- even if it's only a thought, in passing, a mirrored glimpse of that which sparked my own lack of creativity, furthering the chain of human-to-human conceptualization which breeds the creative necessity of life.

Cathartistic Talent

Sputtering

It's difficult for me to fuel a rage at the world sometimes. It's not that there are not things which outrage me; every day, I find new things to inspire my spite for certain aspects of our world. However, at the same time, I find that I see so much around me that is wonderful, so much that is alright with the world that we live in. Somewhere, a voice inside myself tells me that all of the injustices I see are still peanuts compared to the injustices which have come before my time, to the crimes of global scale which predated my awareness.

Even as our economy falters and slips into god knows where, even as wars rage and starving peoples cry out for help, even as nature itself lashes out against humanity, relentless and unprejudiced, I find that I cannot hold anything but appreciation for the times in which I am, and for the life which I have been given the opportunity to enjoy. Even as I see friendships waning into nothing, even as I hear tales of abuse and ignorance, I can only be awed by the fierce manner in which these things occur; the sheer force of life that is required even in moments of destruction.

It is easy to be angry at the world, to be angry at life, at yourself. It is easy to breed contempt or jealousy or that seething, searing hatred by which we seek to elevate ourselves above the things to which we bear witness. It's a simple thing to click on the evening news and find new, scathing things to rail against to burn a fire against the rages of what is not fair and just and true. It is as nothing to let grow within oneself a fear or an aversion; to pour our own derisive comments out against the swelling tide of that which we percieve as wrong with the world. Mankind seems geared to creating this sort of emotional shell; we separate ourselves from those things which we despise by fostering that dark energy, we focus ourselves on being known to feel a certain way about certain things -- our social identity is almost never known by our actions, but by our words, and whichever of these is true, I think it is most interesting that we are not known by what we agree with, by what we believe to be the honest manner in which the world should turn, but that we identify ourselves by our anger, by those things which we would wish to be furthest from. Activism, political rallies, blogs -- we focus ourselves on making it loud and clear that there are things which we see as being incorrect, we exemplify the very things we wish to change, often in the name of social awareness and decrying the despots and infuriating realities that they envision upon the land.

This is not conviction. This is not belief. This is not virtue.

And so, even while I weather the storm which we all must face, even as the harsh existence of starship Earth tears at us, I say, we should stand not for what we refuse to believe in, not to bring to light those ugly things which we cannot abide, but to appreciate the things for which we live; we should forego our anger, at times, and breathe joy and appreciation for the very soul of ourselves and pierce light against a darkness not by bearing the darkness down with fury, but by embracing any glint of light that can be seen, by showing that no level of fear will be allowed to destroy the good in the world, that we, as people, are still capable of knowing that, while our situation grows dim, it will never be black, and we will never falter.

Sputtering