Finding inspiration where we might, we can remember our pasts, participate in our present, and possibly have hope for a better future, and survive the crimes, conflicts, and chaos which tend to swirl and encroach so much of life, and provide such inspiration to our arts and literature.
It occurs to me, now that we have arrived at the autumnal equinox, that a month or two ago, when summer was young, it seemed that it might be interesting to write some short posts about literature, living, sustainability, environment, and various matters of consequence, non-sequence, as well as the inconsequential, and, possibly, even non-sequiturial-ish-isms (since I am coining ‘non-sequeturial,’ I also feel empowered to offer both adjectival and action-noun forms of the word). This is a vague way of saying, I suppose, that I am not, and will not portray myself as either an erudite professor or a superlative critic of all things literary.
I must admit that I have not prepared any literary observations with which to thrillingly introduce myself as a blogger—tantalizing readers yet unknown with inspiring insights into themselves and others. I didn’t procrastinate; I just was really, really busy, though I don’t have much to show for it. Anyway, now that the nights are about to become longer than the days, I don’t have to worry about finding sunblock and pretending to fit into a swim suit anymore (though I am sure the forever-young-and-beautiful are still parading around in swim suits someplace warm). With all my newfound free time I am able to think of more serious issues—like keeping my “resolution” to write this blog entry—so I will happily leave the wearing of bikinis and the writing of learned tomes to those better suited to each of those respected, honored pursuits.
As the years turn to the changing of the seasons, on those pivotal occasions when the duration of daylight and duration of night are equal, or when one day is unequivocally “the shortest” (of winter), and one “the longest” (of summer), people may find themselves unified merely by proximity to a celestial occasion completely beyond our planning or coercion. Odes have been written to the equinox, to the apex and nadir of the seasons, to the heavens, the earth, to life, and love, and longing for a slowing of the rush of days, or, with a depth of affection and memory, for some form of immortality. Think Jimmy Durante singing “September Song” (Weill/Anderson, Knickerbocker Holiday, 1938).
Jimmy Durante sings September Song 1972
Not everyone has a ravishing voice, or appearance, or an incomparable gift for scholarship, writing, or art, but sometimes even quirky talents rise to our notice, simply because of their passion for the truth they find, and convey, in their expression. Sometimes the connection between hearts and minds, or even souls, of artists and audiences, or events and emotions may be so powerful that we wish such people, such experiences, such relationships could linger on … forever. Empowered by the heightened sense of unity which seasonal changes (or the monthly insanity of full moons) might engender, we can even scrutinize the paradoxes and contradictions inherent in our world—the hard edges, the glaring omissions and commissions, and feel a kinship of truth based on universal recognition of the sense of transformation shared.
Finding inspiration where we might, we can remember our pasts, participate in our present, and possibly have hope for a better future, and survive the crimes, conflicts, and chaos which tend to swirl and encroach so much of life, and provide such inspiration to our arts and literature. Not that there is any formula for public utopianism, or even for self-knowledge, but that a sense of truth might emerge through personal experiences and histories — haunting, essential, and unpredictable. Truths may exist in irony, raw emotions may be powerful, mundane experiences significant, if they strike a chord of recognition, and of potential harmonization, within us. It is with these levels of communication, of connection, that I think literature, the arts in general, and even life itself, may be most relevant to any, or each of us. After all, this is human life, as we know it, with all its imperfections… recorded large-as-life in digital streaming for all to see. And, so, well aware of my own inadequacies, it is upon these many variations of truths and shared experiences that I will try, in a semi-timely fashion, to compose occasional additions to this written conversation, wherever you may be reading it.
©Michele Baron 22 September 2016
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