(Inspired by War and Peace, Vol. 3, Part 1, Chapters 1–7)
A river does not choose its course to sea.
Winding across the plains, water discovers
its way—among gullies and hills encounters
a natural inevitability.
Nor does a seedling choose its path through earth
to sun. Sensing the pull of gravity,
it pushes upward—finding a destiny
of gaps between the clods that give it birth.
So, faced with each new moment, you and I
make our own choices—though what we choose is fixed
in our own natures and the arithmetics
of fate. Our needs and options minify
down to an instant’s narrow-focused glass—
our souls revealed by what we bring to pass.
In my head are two horses. One is a creative force, prone to enthusiasms, award-winningly clever, easily bored, easily dispirited. The other a disciplined adult, clear-eyed, trained as an editor and educator, tempered by experience. Faithful, honest, enduring.
As a writer, I’ve learned to nurture the first when starting a project. After all, it’s the one that came up with the idea in the first place, the one with a view beyond the horizon.
And when the creative horse falters, the disciplined one nickers encouragement: “This really is a genius concept, and only you can envision where it’s headed. Only you can carry it through.” But once the first horse is knackered, it’s the disciplined one who analyzes the product, polishes the language, fills in any holes, and trots it out for others’ feedback, before carrying it over the finish line. (Meanwhile, the first horse is dreaming up something new.)
As to the metaphor, I’m unsure whether span or tandem best suits. Are the two horses walking side-by-side in span the whole time, or am I switching the lead horse in a tandem fashion?
Whichever. The point is that there are two very different horses in my head, working together to write things. And of late they’re being forced to haul two very different loads in the same wagon.
One is a load of joy. Not just from creating my own games, essays, and poems, but also celebrating and promoting other people’s creations. It’s fascinated by well-crafted things, from a clever choice of words, to the perfectly timed rotation of a microwave. (Have you ever noticed that punching the “30 second” button brings your coffee cup handle conveniently back to where it started?) It stands in awe of the transcendent art of humankind. And of the simple kindnesses shared.
The other is a load of horror. That while some create beauty, others build bombs. That a millenia-old sculpture can be forever destroyed in seconds. That a museum’s worth of art and knowledge can be crushed and burned in minutes. That a hospital devoted to healing can be targeted for cannonade. And all at the direction of a few highly placed people, either hoarding wealth or seeking to leave their mark on history. Those few, and the many they convince to support them, through fear or greed (which is just another type of fear).
Beauty is difficult and ephemeral. Brutality is easy and lasting. And I can’t champion the one without actively opposing the other.
All of which is to say, I suppose, that if you’ve noticed my social media lurching from announcements about new games to shaming or lampooning tyranny, it’s the same two horses as always.
The nation is just on a really rocky path right now.
“‘What do you wish to see first?’ asked the abbe.” The Count of Monte Cristo
I haven’t posted much about my mental health journey of late. Mainly because for the time being it’s been more about observing and mulling than speaking.
But here’s a nutshell update: (1) a med change from an antidepressant that was also a stimulant (bad for anxiety); and (2) the realization that I’ve depended too much on employer/employee relationship for a gauge of success. The fact is, my work speaks for itself, not a company’s pay scale or willingness to share its profits.
It doesn’t take much of a look at human history to recognize the typically unhealthy relationship between business and its employees, companies and their “human resources,” owners and their hirelings, bosses and their workers. (The very word “boss” leaves a bad taste in our mouths: hence “bossy.”)
My work speaks for itself. I’ve poured heart and soul into it all, never stinting. Why the hell I’ve craved a pat on the head from whoever signed the paycheck is a shame.
In part, this change in perspective was jostled by a citation from Ursula K. Le Guin, herself paraphrasing J.R.R Tolkein, concerning escapism and the “real world.”
To quote Tolkein’s actual words, “I have claimed that Escape is one of the main functions of fairy-stories, and since I do not disapprove of them, it is plain that I do not accept the tone of scorn or pity with which ‘Escape’ is now so often used: a tone for which the uses of the word outside literary criticism give no warrant at all. … Why should a man be scorned if, finding himself in prison, he tries to get out and go home? Or if, when he cannot do so, he thinks and talks about other topics than jailers and prison-walls?”
And Le Guin’s continuation, “If a soldier is imprisoned by the enemy, don’t we consider it his duty to escape? The moneylenders, the knownothings, the authoritarians have us all in prison; if we value the freedom of the mind and soul, if we’re partisans of liberty, then it’s our plain duty to escape, and to take as many people with us as we can.”
Part of my imprisonment has been an Evangelical upbringing that castigated “America’s sinful preoccupation with fun.” Church and State so often work hand in hand to support one another in this regard. And State itself is, to quote John Dewey, “the shadow cast on society by big business.”
I believe that in the long run, an Internet full of art and achievement will change that. In part, my own escapism has lately been the wealth of art, music, and laughter I find online. The amazing things we “common folk” share with one another. That, and the open source movements that sidestep business profits simply to help one another. I believe that these will outpace and outlast the tyrants and warmongers raining destruction down upon us to maintain the status quo.
In any case, I feel a little freer today than I have before. Here’s wishing the same for you.
[P.S. My misuse of Wordsworth’s words in my title is intentional. I’d say “Nuns fret not” foreshadows his hidebound future as Poet Laureate.]
Jennifer says there are songs she likes whose lyrics she’s never paid attention to. I adore my spouse, but how is that even possible?
Not hearing the lyrics is like eating a PB&J without noticing whether it’s marmalade or strawberry preserves. Worse, it’s like eating a PB&J and not even noticing the peanut butter.
Or like hearing a song and not noticing the music.
I wake up with the lyrics of songs from decades ago stuck in my head. Today it’s this one.
