⌉|⌈ – Sunken Soul, debris.

“Sad is what I am — what I will always be,
 an artist is born in form of a shipwreck,
 and henceforth, that same sunken soul
 shall live from scavenging the debris.”

          Existence is often homogenous with the ebb of an ocean — composed of movements, violent thrusts against the shore, soothing hymns that ascend from the waves, to the tip of a cello’s arc, producing the sharpest sounds whose harmony is replicable only by natural flow. As vast and nightmarish as the ocean can be, so can existence. As exurgent and garish its reflective surface can be, so can life be cloaked with that same brightness, when we collect at a table with dear friends, when we peak in a laughter so sharp, it hits the arc of that cello, producing a sound only the heart can see, an expression only movement can encapsulate, doing so calmly… and tenderly.

          One thematic I’ve been avoiding for quite a while is that of nomenclature, am I a writer? Perhaps a poet? Maybe, even, an artist stripped of specification? Do any of those names represent what I am, or rather, what I want to be? What constitutes a writer, a poet, an artist? What constitutes me? All questions whose validity is seeded on a necessity to exist beyond mere existence, beyond the ocean of movements and its tides, where I’m able to become the conductor of my being instead of allowing ebbs and flows to erode me, until I have shapes worth naming. But then, a vision occurs from that breath of epiphany: that of a fern, rooted in a shadowy empire. To understand the fern in its metaphysical elements, even if completely manufactured, is to understand where and why the fern exists and why it needs to exist — akin to any other plant — in this ocean of movements.
An artist is not a sculptor of new realms, or a scholar of unnamed emotions. The artist exists as a process, as a method, whose bounds of chaos and entropy along with seemingly endless creative freedom give it little more than a sense of burial at sea. Once we quest on discovering which movements of this spectral ocean truly ripple within, we are shackled to insufficiency, because the quest is unending, tiring and highly volatile. An artist is then painted semantically as a creative force, even when the process and method display the exact opposite, a form of extreme destruction. Humans are destructive by core, and as much as I try to stray away from speaking of human nature, I believe it is common knowledge that we have a tendency for destruction (albeit at times, it is justified) — what we cannot justify though, is our predisposition to destroy ourselves. The artist takes all that is to be human, all that is to be subjective, and augments it, throws it against the canvas and pages and notes and screens, all that is destructive is permutated to pure, then unruled and ravaged, broken apart and deconstructed. We justify this with Art, for the sake of Art, at the expense of that vast, nightmarish, exurgent and garish ocean. At the toll of our own sincerity towards destructive emotion.

         To be creative is to create space for that creation to elapse, and in the double-trouble of creating creation, we often get too caught up in the first part and what that produces — the pain, the sorrow and memory, the melancholy; instead of the latter, the act of creation itself. Are we even able of gripping that last stage, or do we suddenly become the escape artist of this scenario? Does the vision of that ocean of movement and the ability to bend its threads become overbearing and over-encompassing?
As I gather with friends around the table, and I laugh and elate, I realise further that a writer, a poet, or an artist — are not things I either am nor want to be, but rather states where I slowly dip my toes and feel the temperature of life, of existing, a small gate into a world where concepts become so maleable, their inevitable destruction also becomes inevitably inconsequential. My fear of this nomenclature was simply representative, because I’m not strong enough to constantly overlook the vast ocean of emotions, sometimes, I just want to drink and laugh and hear the peak of that cello’s arc without playing it myself, or writing the small introduction of cellos being played. We cannot always be outsiders, or we will perish in inertia. The movement of this scary ocean must also be our own.

Who knew battling with semantics could be this overly-poetic?


JOHNNY

Hoje sou tudo no nada que sou, amanhã serei outro.

19 thoughts on “⌉|⌈ – Sunken Soul, debris.

  1. That part, where you said being an artist is a “small gate into a world where concepts become so malleable” really struck a chord with me. Very well done.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Desctruction and creation are not to be conflated with goodness and evil. The former are results; the latter, intentions.
      The road to Hell is paved with good intentions. You didn’t say the opposite, just something different.

      Liked by 1 person

      • “Destruction and creation are not to be conflated with goodness and evil. The former are results; the latter, intentions.” ….I could not have put it better nor could I agree more. May I please quote you at some point on my blog? I also adore the text at the very beginning, about an artist being born in the form of a shipwreck, and would love to quote that as well. That bit reminded me of Kahlil Gibran, when he says, I believe, in “Sand and Foam”, that a poet is a king sitting among the ruins of his palace, attempting to fashion something out of the ashes…

        Liked by 1 person

      • A thousand thanks, Meredith.
        You may quote anything I say — whenever. Inspiration holds no boundaries. That initial stanza was an old fragment from a poem that I never published, so I’m somewhat glad someone found light in it, because I have not.

        And yes!, I’ve versed many times about the sensation of a desolate world being painted with oils of deep emotion; but I do not believe the poet is the singular mind who experiences this, we all do. We all fashion our own illusionary buttresses to hold the weight of life’s erosion.
        Your comment made me very happy, thank you Meredith.

        Like

  2. quite beautiful, your thoughts. your words: a bridge. and like most bridges, atop it, i’m struck musing on my own life and its implications.

    i’d ask you:
    is their hope for the sunken soul of an artist? as she willfully submerges herself in “destructive emotions” even at the “toll” as you say of her “sincerity”. does she do so with the hope to surface? if not, why even subject herself to the madness?

    In other words, why do you?

    Liked by 1 person

    • Harduous question; you propose the resolution of a conflict whose primal components are perennial.
      In my case, I often ponder the worthiness of Art, and how much of myself I can cast onto the fires until my essence is simply coke and oil. The extent of what you sacrifice, by all means, is the extent of your return, and the intensity of those flames.
      I find balance in life: when I live, I do not write, and vice-versa. I tend to avoid living my pieces, at least for now; I go by the Wildean principle of living the poetry I do not write, and writing the poetry I cannot live.
      One day, though, may I continue, I’m certain that the bounds will blur beyond my motions, and upon that peak, I will have more answers.
      Thank you so much for reading, and the compliments, you’re quite sweet. 😊

      Like

  3. Poet…
    You have a certain rhythm to your writing. Lyrical I’d say.

    Your prose are poetic. Which is artist. Don’t narrow yourself with a label…

    I don’t have a label…either that or I have many :)…artist in progress ~

    Liked by 1 person

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