Sunflowers
The following words were part of the October 24, 2022 edition of These Traces.
Well, this is messed up. First, I skipped an issue. Sorry about that. Seems I lost track, somewhere in the fog of production, and didn’t even notice. But then, I failed to schedule this one properly, so it didn’t go out last week the way it was meant to and I didn’t notice that either…until just now. Which is why you’re receiving These Traces on a Monday, at some random hour, out of the blue. Time for coffee and lots of it.
My recent hiatus wasn’t just about a rush. Not just about back pain, either. I mentioned state of mind on the blog, in passing, but I should’ve elaborated. In The Bullet Journal Method, Ryder Carroll writes about the concept of radiance, an ability to influence the world around us through the way we interact with others. This extends to what we create, to the work we do, what we might teach one another along the way. But creation is a fire that burns in more ways than one, ultimately consuming what first allows it to shine.
And to radiate.
…
Thoughts crowd my mind. About destiny vs futility and roads that can only either end or loop back on themselves. About chapters and seasons and not allowing yourself to dwell, and not tilling the same soil until nothing grows anymore. Thoughts of scission, new lands and new expeditions, far from where I’ve allowed myself to exist until now. But it’s all shapeless, like vapour refusing to condense into water drops and hit the ground already. And it’s tangled up in the menace of fascism and far-right ideologues, in the dumbing down of public discourse and the eradication of a common truth through ignorance or indifference or both. In hubris, and hurricane winds, and idiot billionaires milking idiot masses, and wildfires blowing our house down.
And these thoughts cause moments of paralysis, which are probably unavoidable: inspiration, after all, is another word for inhalation. If the air is rancid...
A couple of young activists threw tomato soup at Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, and at first it made me angry. It still does, a little, but I get it. They’re screaming at impassiveness, asking what the point is and how does this matter, when life, real life, is breaking down. But there is no point. One day, a man painted frail beautybecause he needed to. He died, sad, alone, and penniless, but his work survived, long enough to enrich others who likely would’ve scoffed at the sight of him. Long enough for napkins and ties to be printed and posters taped to dorm room walls and hung in suburban kitchens inside garish gold frames. And for kids to throw tomato soup at it and glue themselves to a wall. Art is nothing, and vain, but a mark of our humanity. That we can gaze longingly at brushstrokes or pixels with no other goal but to escape makes us weak and wonderful. Which is why I still search, locked into inescapable motion, despite hurdles, and rarefied atmospheres, and dry spells.
Just to maybe shine a tiny while longer.
Or to at least try.
