Idea-less dust
original poetry & philosophy
When all the ideas have crumbled
There is a residue of dull pearl
Coating thy wand, plastered by worm-webbing
Becoming mummified by the white paralysis of dusk:
Though I swear: I glanced a nacre glint in death's incisor.
The stygian landscape,
Gushing with cobalt and dark green tourmaline streams,
Barren witness to the atramentous freshets lacing its peel
That seek the solace of the midnight ocean.
The moon is of bismuth and the clouds that veil it
Are of squid ink. The sky itself is hardened black light
Which only the loftiest thoughts can soar beyond.
Daytime is a mirage wavering with a sunflower smile
Just beyond the horizon of our village.
Only night keeps company
Obscuring even the flecks
That gravitate to thy sorcerous antenna
With such colorlessness they consume all color,
With such facelessness they all beings efface.
Though I swear, I dreamt some activation's route
Whereby the pull of this black hole
Could be reversed and nourish feeble souls
Yea even pull them out of turbid dust: for once to thrive
And blast empyrean idea-less gloom to finally come alive.
Notes & philosophical discussion
If you've followed my blog for a while, you'll know I'm not a believer in writer's block. At least, not in the true sense of running out of ideas. I simply don't believe it's possible to not have ideas, although it is possible to believe you have no ideas. If you want to test the theory, create a piece of art about having no ideas, as I did here. The metaphor of a strange dust beginning to collect on one that is consuming all the color of the world and all of one's ideas came to me. Well would ya look at that, we've already got something to work with.
Art has many purposes including personal expression (often verging on the universal!) processing of experiences both favorable and traumatic, speculation about the nature of reality, creation of fantastical or fictional worlds from the imagination, educating or instructing, stimulating thought, attempting to channel something larger than oneself, attempting to express the inexpressible, building something tangible to be left to one's descendants, an expression of the sheer enjoyment of creating, etc. (The purposes are as endless as there are individuals to conceive of their own particular motivations.)
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If one gives enough contemplation to the nature of reality, most will come to the conclusion that reality is either
1) Infinite in duration & dimension
or
2) if it is somehow limited, it is impossible for us
(at the present time) to declare its outer boundaries.
We, being integral shards of such a cosmos, share in its vastness. Whether we believe there is no limit thereof, or that such a limit is impossible to delineate, we come to the selfsame conclusion. How then could we declare our idea-lessness? Such a thing (itself an idea) is absurd! Does such a phenomenon arise in artists when they realize their art itself is to a degree meaningless in comparison with the larger truths of the universe?
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Whatever the causes, self-cultivation is something of a panacea for such blockages. The soil of the psyche must be tilled, fertilized, and lovingly prepared: the seeds of aspiration and intention sown, before we can expect the flourishing vegetation to spring up within ourselves. In a world where taking total responsibility for all aspects of one's existence appears to be quite uncommon, we view those who aspire to greatness as outliers. Could it be that magnificence and genius of a near-inconceivable degree is the common inheritance of all humanity, once they arise and claim their lofty birthright?
Written by
2/12/18
Images areFree domain &
Edited by
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