In theory everything is perfect, pure. But the creative act means making a choice and, inevitably, sacrificing perfection so that something beautiful might be born.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live in an abstract world, where only theories would matter. And in this world, even that utilitarian instrument we call language would become obsolete. Human beings, after all, would no longer be held captive by that base desire to stoop to words.
On certain winter evenings we can approach the outer limits of such an existence. If the snow is falling and people mysteriously disappear from the roads, we have an easier time dissociating objects from their corresponding functions. Street signs and traffic lights, for example, become mere collections of shapes and colors. And during these moments we seem to grasp the essence of things, if only for a time. Even silence has a way of speaking to us, in spite of words.
When I have an idea I think is brilliant, I turn it over in my mind and imagine bringing it to life with an organized array of symbols. Then I imagine what the results would be. Most often the results are extraordinary: I write a bestseller without sacrificing my artistic ideals. Then I turn down talk shows because everyone wants me. Finally I achieve a stratospheric level of fame and fortune. My experience makes me the most sought after dinner companion. I'm cool yet engaged. I'm easy. I live and write by the sea, maybe.
Sometimes, though, our abstract world becomes so complete that the decision to give birth would only contaminate its purity. In other words, the abstract book we have never actually written is indeed written, but written so perfectly so as to destroy our desire to realize it.
In the past I've joked with friends about this phenomenon, which they understand very well because they are also its victims. Before Christmas I had dinner with a close friend, and I was reminded of the time a few years back when he and I discussed our dream of one day owning our own winery. We exhausted ourselves talking about it in the abstract. I told him that we had formulated our vision of a theoretical winery so perfectly that there was no way we could actually construct it. It seemed to us that following through with our plans would only lead to disappointment. We both laughed and agreed that we were probably right.
The plant world does not suffer from such problems. For example, when a tree moves in the wind, it moves perfectly. Perhaps this is because it is not aware it is moving. In opposition to nature, our actions seem contrived, even pointless. It does appear that some things are better explored in theory alone. Football, grocery shopping, and going to work—these are but three examples. There are innumerable others. If only we could rise above the spectacle of grown men in tights, our need to assimilate organic material, renting ourselves to satisfy our need to consume, maybe we could better appreciate the beauty of an abstract world.
In light of our descent into the realm of the concrete, what do we make of our time here on earth? How do we interpret our actions and the shadows they cast? When I am overwhelmed by the masochistic urge to destroy myself, to venture beyond the world of the pure and betray my communion with silence, to give birth to an idea so perfect and so complete by stooping to words, there is one thing that comforts me.
Thrust into the world, we are the concrete answer to a question posed in the bedroom. We have no choice in the matter. We are creatures complicit in our communion with the concrete. Aside from suicide—and even this is a suspect solution—there is nothing we can do to shed this role. And if we choose not to die, then we must choose to live. So why not live as fully as possible?
In theory I want to consume the world. I want to know everything. I want the company of brilliant and beautiful people all day, every day. I want to burn so bright I blind myself. We must accept that life is a work of art that is never fully complete, and a part of it will always remain an abstraction composed of thoughts, desires, regrets. Life only closes in on itself—in other words, ceases to function in part as theory—when it encounters its own finality. Pregnant with our dreams for the future, death is an abortion of sorts—the moment when all of our theories are taken from us, forever.
This is the tragedy we must fight against. This is the theory that must compel us to live.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live in an abstract world, where only theories would matter. And in this world, even that utilitarian instrument we call language would become obsolete. Human beings, after all, would no longer be held captive by that base desire to stoop to words.
On certain winter evenings we can approach the outer limits of such an existence. If the snow is falling and people mysteriously disappear from the roads, we have an easier time dissociating objects from their corresponding functions. Street signs and traffic lights, for example, become mere collections of shapes and colors. And during these moments we seem to grasp the essence of things, if only for a time. Even silence has a way of speaking to us, in spite of words.
When I have an idea I think is brilliant, I turn it over in my mind and imagine bringing it to life with an organized array of symbols. Then I imagine what the results would be. Most often the results are extraordinary: I write a bestseller without sacrificing my artistic ideals. Then I turn down talk shows because everyone wants me. Finally I achieve a stratospheric level of fame and fortune. My experience makes me the most sought after dinner companion. I'm cool yet engaged. I'm easy. I live and write by the sea, maybe.
Sometimes, though, our abstract world becomes so complete that the decision to give birth would only contaminate its purity. In other words, the abstract book we have never actually written is indeed written, but written so perfectly so as to destroy our desire to realize it.
In the past I've joked with friends about this phenomenon, which they understand very well because they are also its victims. Before Christmas I had dinner with a close friend, and I was reminded of the time a few years back when he and I discussed our dream of one day owning our own winery. We exhausted ourselves talking about it in the abstract. I told him that we had formulated our vision of a theoretical winery so perfectly that there was no way we could actually construct it. It seemed to us that following through with our plans would only lead to disappointment. We both laughed and agreed that we were probably right.
The plant world does not suffer from such problems. For example, when a tree moves in the wind, it moves perfectly. Perhaps this is because it is not aware it is moving. In opposition to nature, our actions seem contrived, even pointless. It does appear that some things are better explored in theory alone. Football, grocery shopping, and going to work—these are but three examples. There are innumerable others. If only we could rise above the spectacle of grown men in tights, our need to assimilate organic material, renting ourselves to satisfy our need to consume, maybe we could better appreciate the beauty of an abstract world.
In light of our descent into the realm of the concrete, what do we make of our time here on earth? How do we interpret our actions and the shadows they cast? When I am overwhelmed by the masochistic urge to destroy myself, to venture beyond the world of the pure and betray my communion with silence, to give birth to an idea so perfect and so complete by stooping to words, there is one thing that comforts me.
Thrust into the world, we are the concrete answer to a question posed in the bedroom. We have no choice in the matter. We are creatures complicit in our communion with the concrete. Aside from suicide—and even this is a suspect solution—there is nothing we can do to shed this role. And if we choose not to die, then we must choose to live. So why not live as fully as possible?
In theory I want to consume the world. I want to know everything. I want the company of brilliant and beautiful people all day, every day. I want to burn so bright I blind myself. We must accept that life is a work of art that is never fully complete, and a part of it will always remain an abstraction composed of thoughts, desires, regrets. Life only closes in on itself—in other words, ceases to function in part as theory—when it encounters its own finality. Pregnant with our dreams for the future, death is an abortion of sorts—the moment when all of our theories are taken from us, forever.
This is the tragedy we must fight against. This is the theory that must compel us to live.
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