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"One night in 1879 at a bar in a town called Menlo Park, N.J., some men were drinking beer, when suddenly one of them announced that he was going to invent an electric light. The others laughed, but that man got up, put on his coat and hat, and accidentally walked into the fireplace, thereby setting his coat on fire. This gave Thomas Edison, who was at another table drinking coffee, the idea of using carbonized cotton as the filament in his light bulb. So we see that beer, if used correctly, can be a tremendous force for good."
-Dave Barry
How important is art? How important a service does it perform for society? I would be likely to say that it is very important, although I've never offered or heard an explanation for that which wasn't a pile of shit. But before I, or you, praise the importance of art, I'd like to ask how much is it worth. How much would you sacrifice for art?
A lot of the most creative artists have been troubled. Sometimes art comes from suffering, sometimes from a troubled childhood, sometimes from mental disease or drug abuse. From Van Gogh to Anne Sexton, Ernest Hemingway to Jim Morrison. Would any of these people have produced such great work if they had lived painless, normal lives? As one of my teachers used to ponder, maybe Picasso painted like that because that is what he saw. If we could live in a world where no one had to suffer as these people have, would they lose the vision that creates such art. Would such a world be worth the art we would lose?
In my opinion it's a tough question. The world is certainly a better place because of the work that suffering artists have produced. But how much better? Is it enough to warrant their pain or death? How great does the art have to be before we deem these artists' lives worthy of sacrifice? When does the need of the many outweigh the need of the one? If we decide that a person's life and happiness is never to be sacrificed, are we willing to live in a world without art? If that is the choice, is that a price you would be willing to pay for the sake of the artists?
What will we think of these artists? It's easier to have respect for a person who has burned bright. Can we have the same respect for someone who has refused to be great, in order that they be sane? Would you want Morrison to have been a typical AA attending American, an unknown poet or a bit actor? Do we have the strength to let our heroes go like that? Do we have the maturity to respect that person as much as the supernova we actually knew?
And how happy will the artists actually be? Will they be happy living without suffering, if they must also live without creativity? Which is a better life. It's obvious which is a safer life, which is more contented. And it's obvious that we don't want our heroes to die. But does that necessarily make the safe route the better one. Would they have been happier being normal?
I was recently at a talk given by John Densmore, the drummer from The Doors. Of course he talked about Jim. Densmore said that his own cross to bear in life was that he couldn't stand to watch Jim destroy himself, but he couldn't leave. He couldn't walk away from the art. What I wanted to ask him (but didn't because I'm a wimp), is whether he would be willing to bring Jim back. Whether he would go back and give Jim a happy life if it meant he would lose the art. If he had the power would he save Jim from his suffering, while at the same time erasing all that Jim and The Doors created. It's a hard question for me, it must be harder for a man who loved Jim, and who also knew the magic that they created together. I don't know that Jim couldn't have been happy and creative at the same time, but what if that was the choice we had to make for all those who are like Jim. Could Densmore stand to live with a contented Jim, while knowing the genius he was in another life? How important is the Jim we know? He certainly has touched a lot of people. Would you cast aside a happy life for him, in order to keep his art for us all? Would you throw away his art, to give him peace? At what price, art.
Sidenote: On a lighter note, Densmore told us about a practical joke Jim pulled on Ray, the organ player. Once, at 4 in the morning before a concert, Jim called Ray's hotel room. When Ray answered he said "Ray, this is God. We've decided to kick your ass out of the universe." I've got to try that one.
I'm not a beach person. Not that I don't like the beach, I'm just not a beach person. Some people love the beach, want to live on the beach, want to marry the beach (a little bit of Pee Wee for you). I like to visit, but if I had my choice of anywhere to be, I'd be in the forest.
I'm a forest person. Specifically, a New England forest person. I like forests, hills, mountains and streams, all in a wild mix. I love our blended forests of pines and decidous, all different shades of green, all different heights. I love the forest floor: coated with needles, sprinkled with plants, pimpled with roots. I love streams, just deep enought to trickle, taking their crazy course over rocks and down hills. I love to make paths, to crack dead branches, leap over streams, and climb trees. What better place to imagine and play, or to look, to watch, or to nap.
Mountains are the special friends of forests. I like the small forested mountains. Ones that allow you to hike to their top, and see the forests all around them. There is something about the sight from a mountain top that gives you a new understanding of what a forest is. I never loved New England as much as when I stood atop a mountain and saw nothing but green around me. Saw the lumps of other mountains spread all over the carpet around me. I love the forest because it keeps its secrets. As I stand atop that mountain I see forest all around me. Within that forest may be a thousand people playing and sitting and climbing, but the forest won't allow me to intrude on them. And the forest won't allow others to intrude on me, when I come down from the mountain to join it.
Solferino
We all live in two worlds -
One that encompasses us all,
and one that draws close around you alone.
Sunny day and breath of spring,
i walk to work on the play of the breeze.
Across this street, workers wait.
Their job is there,
but it's just around the corner of time,
waiting on the words of the preacher.
They lean with their elbows, chat with their mouths.
Time ticks by.
Life takes a pleasant pause.
Over the hedges and past the rows of graves,
the day is darker.
Mourners pay their respects,
friends weep.
Here there is no work or play.
Life pauses, but not pleasantly.
It stretches the minutes out to hours,
While the world howls inside their heads.
Dreams collapse and die.
They draw close to one another,
and listen to their private mourning horn.
Outside, we watch in silence and sun.
The crowded circle disperses
and the center of our attention drifts away.
The workers take their place
and lower the casket.
I move on,
off down the road, off to my life.
The sun still shines on my back.
There was little to separate us from those mourners -
a hedge, a fence -
but there are no two worlds farther apart than ours.
Strange that we live in two worlds.
Strange that your world can be so far from mine,
Even on a sunny day.
I guess life is a dance of worlds.
Sometimes you mingle with the dancehall crowd.
Sometimes it's you and your partner alone.
And sometimes you sit in the corner,
look out the window,
and hope the song ends soon.
Why can't things last forever? I suppose a philosopher would say that all things do if you live wholly in the present. But that's not good enough for me. Why can't the things I want and love keep going? Why do I have to worry about futures and ends, why do lives drift apart? The scientist would cite entropy I suppose, things drift away and apart, things break down. And the logician would remark that lives also drift together, I am forgetting that. But if they are just going to drift apart in the end, what's the point? I know I live too far in the future. But knowing doesn't change it. When I have a thing today, that's good, but I wonder if I'll have it next weekend, or next decade. And if I know I won't, how can I enjoy it? I like things that last, things that stick together. Memories aren't good friends to me, although they are often my companions. I don't like to be always dealing with something new. I enjoy comfort and security. I enjoy familiarity, I enjoy being surrounded by things and people that will stay with me. Stay with me.
But people don't stay, they drift with the force of life. I managed to catch hold to one, but now my hands are full. What do I do about the others? What can I offer them to make them stay? How can I grab on with hands that are already full? I smile and chat and play while they are here, but it's an empty feeling, for as I chat my eyes gauge their motion, and plot the course that is taking them away from me. People, if you care about me, grab on. Do what you can. See if you can't manage to stay.
"It's crazy what you could've had.
I need this.
I need this."
-R.E.M.
The End