Once Upon a...

“Did you see this? Love in the time of COVID. A bit plagiaristic, but I can see the possibilities. If it worked for typhoid, I suppose it would work for COVID.”

“I think it was typhoid Mary it worked for. Cholera might have been what you were thinking of, or are you attempting to instill the will to create in me? Or could it be you’re just making conversation to keep from having to take out the garbage?”

I wonder at times why it bothers me so much, but it does. Talent is something one is born with. To not use it seems like an unsolved riddle. Why or where talent comes from, no one seems to know. Rarely does an artist sire another artist, unless it is an artform that can be learned by observation or coaching, perhaps like... But I don’t know, never having been anything remotely resembling a creative being, for that matter. 

I am intrigued though, by the ability some have of creating something from nothing. Birthing an idea, or a movement, both expressions of idealism that must come from somewhere. A past, a collection of chromosomes that bloom for one and not for others. Right place right time? It seems about as random as that, but I can’t believe it is. Take an artist like Picasso, or an architect like Wright; they learn a process but then abandon it and go down a path that has led thousands of others to early graves, metaphorically speaking of course; or perhaps not. Van Gough sacrificed an ear to remember who he needed to be.

So, what is it about creativity that causes some to stand on the precipice of a building, fifty floors above the street, and contemplate possibility? While others cringe at the inference of having to do so. I wish I knew the answer, as I would give it to her, show her that to begin, one must believe that the next step will not lead to a precipice that cannot be navigated, but must be jumped.

The flight only gives wings to the notion, not the other way around. Flight is a concept that encompasses all manner of movement towards a destination; away from, under, above. Each simply a variety on a theme. And yet the theme is essential in that if gives direction to the process. Without a set process, deviation is not only impossible, but improbable, for creativity and deviation are similarly different; each maintains the necessity of being ostracized in the name of art.

Casandra is a writer. I do not use the word lightly, as it is an emblem of devotion, a conduit of creativity.  Once embraced it cannot be abandoned, because it like a mussel, it attaches itself to lifelessness, and in return is nourished by the elements of life as they pass by. To take thousands of years of sounds, symbols, give them life by breathing a beginning and an end into them, and then sharing the results with the rest of humanity, must be an exceptional feeling, creation.

Casandra refuses to believe her talent is relevant to anyone but me, at one time herself. It doesn’t matter as I refuse to accept the fact, that will and refinement when combined, will not explode into the imagination it requires, to believe in the concept of infinity, or that a God has no beginning and no end. It is that belief I wish to draw from the doubt that inhibits her and others who believe they have nothing to say, nothing left to offer.

Doubt is the thief that steals the will to create before it has been given a chance to exploit the hope, that is only a word or two away from anyone that has ever harbored a thought, or dragged a crayon across a piece of paper. 

Doubt instills fear, which in turn promotes more doubt. The cycle begins and ends before it has been given a chance. Creativity looms on every lip and eye, in every hand, and yet it slips so ungracefully to the impervious realm that refuses to let it find its way, for fear of embarrassing itself. Rejection, the word like a stake in the heart of a would-be vampire not fully aware of the gruesomeness involved, but glad for the opportunity to explore the experience of what only had been imagined for ages.

“What are you doing so much? You drift off into that world you call you?”

“Do me a favor. Describe for me what the word “beauty,” means to you?”

“Possibility, of course.”

“What does the word ugly… better yet, the word unattractive conjure from your little gray cells…unattractive, less inferential!”

“Unattractive? I’d have to say, perspective. Why?”

“Trying to write a letter to an old friend. Attempting to be optimistic but not pushy. By pushy I mean, presumptuous, intimidating, disrespectful, and yet demanding, encouraging, but not condescending.”

“Who are you writing to? Do I know him?”

“It’s a She, if you must know. An old girlfriend I used to know, who believed everything was possible if you imagined it could be. I believe; therefore, I am… remember that?”

“Yes! How could I forget. That is what you wanted me to write on your tomb stone, if I remember correctly.”

“Well, yes, but that was back when dyin was in vogue.”

I realize, as I look back on what was and what could have been, the only difference was the desire. We stumble along with a backpack of dreams that seem to grow less achievable as time goes by and we abandon them to lessen the weight, the responsibility, the promise. It isn’t until we look back on a time when everything was cloaked in a tomorrow that we find ourselves locked in a today. The day after tomorrow has become a story we talk about on cold rainy nights to keep ourselves from feeing the loneliness that slips past the todays, and imbeds itself in our yesterdays…causing us to forgo a tomorrow, as it is so far away.

“A life is a terrible thing to waste.” A saying I have turned over and over in my mind, and have yet to find an acceptable explanation, The words of course indict the notion that when we do not live up to our potential, we are wasting a gift bestowed upon us. Although no expectations are placed on the one receiving the gift, it is the word, “waste,” that highlights the intent of the statement and the expectations embodied in it.

Over the past several decades we have seen a deterioration in the arts. Science, and math, have been placed on a pedestal dedicated to progress, that no doubt enhances the possibility for advancement in our economic, educational, and medical prestige, but it doesn’t put a smile on your face, a thought in your head, or a tune in your ear.

“What do you say we go for a walk, think about what it was like when we could run against the wind.”

“I’d rather stay here. Do you remember the saying, “I once was lost, but now I’m found? It’s like that now some days. I forget who I am, who I was, who you are. It will only get worse you know, and you want me to write it down? Why?”

“They say it might help. And if not, at least I will know what you’ve been thinking. Forgetting is nothing new for me either. I’ve spent years forgetting to remember. It may just be the time to begin. What do you say we go for that run?”

“On one condition. You hold my hand, and you wear that old seafaring cap you used to wear. The one in the chest in the attic. What do you say?”

“I’ll be right back. Don’t forget me now, OK.”