“No matter how dramatic a person’s direct experience is, it is always exceeded by the experience of an instrument.”
-Joseph Brodsky, A Poet and Prose
In muscles tensed; in strings left quivering; in brush-strokes sketched with regret; in lens-clicks quicker than a skipped heartbeat; in the blood-letting of pen upon paper: Poetry and Prose—tragic beauty, so elusive to reality, is finally, finally, found.
Unaware yet eager, born believing art imitates life (of all things!), you, I, we lived such crude and clumsy outlines of artistic lyricism, lives drawn with the unused hand–disconnected from the cerebral, brain-dead. And on rare days, illuminated, pass the shadows of Muses. And? And we—we looked away.
Choose to look—within the awkward glance, within the painful memory, within the unconscious speech and conscious action, I delve within. Performing, privately, the craftsman consumed by craft.
Art, look how alive you are, breathing newborn vapors vivid and inspired. And reality, you, once pregnant with promise, what are these trite remains of dreams stillborn? I stand, holding our miscarriages in tired arms; there is no room to embrace another.
Jealousy, despair, acceptance.
In living, let us do away with such things. I, at least, must do away with such things.
To be born believing art imitates life, and to die believing life can imitate art. This is optimism.