To Write is to Wrise Above

…or to be more precise: To create is to find peace.

Artists of all kinds, good and bad, seem to be cocky. Cocksure. (It is a male-centric term, as with everything else in this Latin-based world we live in.) Why is that? Let’s ask Henry Miller:

Strange as it may seem today to say, the aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware. In this state of god-like awareness one sings; in this realm the world exists as poem. No why or wherefore, no direction, no goal, no striving, no evolving. Like the enigmatic Chinaman one is rapt by the everchanging spectacle of passing phenomena. This is the sublime, the a-moral state of the artist, he who lives only in the moment, the visionary moment of utter, far-seeing lucidity. Such clear, icy sanity that it seems like madness. By the force and power of the artist’s vision the static, synthetic whole which is called the world is destroyed. The artist gives back to us a vital, singing universe, alive in all its parts.”

What the devil?

Well, to put it simply…the world that all enjoy (some more than others) has been made possible thanks to the artist. Whether it be language, society, nature, or simply the fact that the bus comes to pick you up in the morning, everything was constructed by dreamers and creators. Those that have learned, or can live nothing but, the way of the artist create the unseen and unheard (or misheard) gods of this life we call life.

Newton, now widely regarded as the father of physics, was a dreamer. His theories, later proven true (for the most part), were the thoughts of a dreamer, a thinker. Enter Einstein, the father of the universe as we know it, or so we thought (his theories of the space-time continuum and relativity and all that jazz are now being realized as only true inside Earth’s gravity), today. Yes, that’s physics, but, in its own way, also art.

I could easily go off on a tangent on how free-thinkers and dreamers like Hemingway, Led Zeppelin, Henry Ford, etc. are all artists in their own way, but that’s not the point. (I’ll explain that when we meet in a bar.) Why are (most) artists cocksure?

They’ve tapped into a realm others haven’t. They’ve died to the world. Completely. And they are proud.

Again, Henry:

This final reality which the artist comes to recognize in his maturity is that paradise of the womb, that “China” which the psychologists place somewhere between the conscious and the unconscious, that pre-natal security and immortality and union with nature from which he must wrest his freedom. Each time he is spiritually born he dreams of the impossible, the miraculous, dreams he can break the wheel of life and death, avoid the struggle and drama, the pain and the suffering of life. His poem is the legend wherein he buries himself, wherein he relates of the mysteries of birth and death – his reality, his experience. He buries himself in his tomb of poem in order to achieve that immortality which is denied him as a physical being.”

A mindset is constructed where it is seemingly impossible to find happiness or content with the surroundings, the world, the life, however you see it. This takes over, slowly but surely, and, before one knows, everyday things make absolutely no sense. Therefore a new reality is born and in this reality one must remain because venturing outside will result in an untimely death. And the whole point of living is survival, right?

To construct this world in which to dwell the artist utilizes their talents in a way to not only find peace but to also share with the rest of the world what they have figured out. Sometimes people get it, other times, well, no. But it shouldn’t matter.

The only failed artist is the artist that lets others tell them what is right and what is wrong. It goes against everything the artist has known or has constructed.

It is not about acceptance. It is about finding that inner peace, however that may be.

I was thinking about all of this as I sat, elated, after finishing some writing. But then I thought, “Is creating your own realm as a realm of unhappiness and torture really creating anything?” Then I thought, “Yes. I can always give it a happy ending.”

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