Letter to the loveless
This is a response to your note, Loveless (ah, you must despise the unfortunate moniker I've chosen for you).
I've heard it said that great artists are, in fact, incredibly dull people. They are reclusive hermits, wallflowers observing and collecting the stories that unfold before them, their participation consigned to imaginative territories. They live life on the page, stage, or score.
As the saying goes, it would hold then that bad artists are great adventurous, spontaneous survivors who tackle life and squeeze out every rich experience it has to offer. Little is left over for their art.
How about another familiar stereotype: the tortured artist seeking solice in poetry from life's most bitter, miserable moments. Happiness is as threatening as drought for drying up the creative well of those so cruelly afflicted.
Do I believe in such oversimplified characters? No. Have I turned to art in times of turmoil? Hell yeah. It is the most difficult times when I use artistic expression to cope, deal with, understand life. Enter the loveless.
Love is, indeed, a persuasive siren, perched atop that distant island with songs of saccharine sweetness and promises of happiness to beat the band. Silly devil of a woman, that red boa and glossy lips would entice the most chaste of women and men, I'm sure. Who wouldn't want her?
And who understands wanting and longing better than the tortured poet? (No you're right, I'm not talking about artists. I'm talking about the idea of the artist. Perhaps the idea of the artist you have of yourself.) Yes, the artist and the siren want each other (or want to want each other). Hell, I've seen them try on each other's clothing when the other goes out to pick up the pizza or is busy vacuuming in the basement.
But here you are, loveless. Watching her. And just when she seemed most willing to engage in the play, you turned away. Altered the ship's course. Without even recognizing it as self-preservation (not attending to the jagged rocks on which the siren lounged), the artist simply thought, "I can't wait to sail home and write about that girl whose song is so elusive. Let's sail home now."
So loveless, I ask about your letter: would you have bothered penning the thing at all, had you actually gotten to steal a kiss from her?
Of course, I loved the letter. Had I my way, you'd never steal the kiss, and I would read your great prose for a lifetime.
C
I've heard it said that great artists are, in fact, incredibly dull people. They are reclusive hermits, wallflowers observing and collecting the stories that unfold before them, their participation consigned to imaginative territories. They live life on the page, stage, or score.
As the saying goes, it would hold then that bad artists are great adventurous, spontaneous survivors who tackle life and squeeze out every rich experience it has to offer. Little is left over for their art.
How about another familiar stereotype: the tortured artist seeking solice in poetry from life's most bitter, miserable moments. Happiness is as threatening as drought for drying up the creative well of those so cruelly afflicted.
Do I believe in such oversimplified characters? No. Have I turned to art in times of turmoil? Hell yeah. It is the most difficult times when I use artistic expression to cope, deal with, understand life. Enter the loveless.
Love is, indeed, a persuasive siren, perched atop that distant island with songs of saccharine sweetness and promises of happiness to beat the band. Silly devil of a woman, that red boa and glossy lips would entice the most chaste of women and men, I'm sure. Who wouldn't want her?
And who understands wanting and longing better than the tortured poet? (No you're right, I'm not talking about artists. I'm talking about the idea of the artist. Perhaps the idea of the artist you have of yourself.) Yes, the artist and the siren want each other (or want to want each other). Hell, I've seen them try on each other's clothing when the other goes out to pick up the pizza or is busy vacuuming in the basement.
But here you are, loveless. Watching her. And just when she seemed most willing to engage in the play, you turned away. Altered the ship's course. Without even recognizing it as self-preservation (not attending to the jagged rocks on which the siren lounged), the artist simply thought, "I can't wait to sail home and write about that girl whose song is so elusive. Let's sail home now."
So loveless, I ask about your letter: would you have bothered penning the thing at all, had you actually gotten to steal a kiss from her?
Of course, I loved the letter. Had I my way, you'd never steal the kiss, and I would read your great prose for a lifetime.
C