I’m fluctuating between settling down to pre-college routine and suffering withdrawal symptoms from it. Both are good for me at this point in time, I think. Kind of distracts me from the other stuff in the background. Dear God, I hope the next semester doesn’t hold any surprises. I can’t handle those anymore. Maybe, was created for a dull, monotonous life (not.)
But while I enjoy and revel in normality, normalcy, or whatever the correct term is, the words are coming back! And that is always, but always, a plus point to any day or night. I’ve been picking stuff up from here and there so I guess the next couple of weeks are as good a time as any to do some cut’n’paste.
I read this some time ago, I’m not sure I’m a Walt Whitman fan, but this touched a soft spot, it’s his poem “Among the Multitude”:
Among the men and women, the multitude,
I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs,
Acknowledging none else – not parent, wife, husband, brother, child,
Any nearer than I am,
Some are baffled – but that one is not – that one knows me.
Ah lover and perfect equal ,
I meant that you should discover me so by faint indirections,
And I when I meet you mean to discover you by the like in you.
The commentor who was quoting him said:
“Whitman demonstrates a similarity between people because of some common ground. Although this poem is meant to express a hidden love between a man and a woman, the idea of a common ground work between people can be positioned between artists.
In this work Whitman is saying that people with this tie between them know that it is there and can recognize it in an instant. Great artists with a creative nature share a passion for their art as well as a unique way of expressing it. Where does this passion and ability for unique expression come from?”
Where indeed? Some days I feel like I have that passion within me, no matter how difficult or awkward or discomfiting it is to have to admit to it. (And why is it that it’s so hard to admit to the simple human capacity to feel?) I feel like I could blend into a crowd of artists and not only learn from them, but actually have something to share.
Other days, I wonder who I’m kidding when I think that I have something the world might want to see or read or bother about. My mind feels like a murky bog and my thoughts trudge around slugglishy, barely making it into existence. And it embarasses me to remember the things I have written or drawn or said that seemed so vivid and important to express.
I wonder why I’m rarely so satisfied with anything I do, as to want to claim it as my own for ever. At some point in time, I want to hide it away and wish no one had ever set eyes on it. The passage of hours or days or weeks seems to water down the intensity of the moment of its creation and it becomes a pale shadow of what it was meant to be.
It’s hard admitting that you are so personally involved in something and still sticking to that feeling even when other people don’t seem to be as inspired by it as you had hoped. I guess the secret is in learning to love and respect your own worth, regardless of whether other people approve or not. Placing your value in the esteem of those around you is a dangerous thing to do. And it’s something I succumb to over and over again. I wish I didn’t, but I do. A simple statement, heck, even a glance can unbalance me.
I don’t know where I picked up that habit or even why, but I know I have to get rid of it. Until I do, there will always be that essential core within me that will remain locked to everyone, including my self.
“Since we are destined to live out our lives in the prison of our minds, our one duty is to furnish it well. “
-Peter Ustinov, actor, writer and director (1921-2004)