Too
Many Questions
.
(Pardon my bravado, but I
believe I have, with this freshly baked combo, just done the best drawing, poem
& video I may ever have done.
.
But what do I know, right?)
.
.
What
is excellence?
.
Can
it be defined as honoring the efficacious
application
of a skill? Is it entirely obsessed
with
an assessment of design? Does it mainly
cheer
about a clear establishment of form?
Must
it entail minute attention to detail? Does it
emerge
from the amorphous as a mystery? –
or
as the moral substance, then the tool and then
.
the
servant of an artisan’s direct intent to civilize
the
swarm of the competing instincts of the world
into
another paradigm which might induce
a
less disastrous norm? Does it suggest the tale
that
we’re perfectible might after all be true?
Does
it mainly have to do with altering the notion
that
humanity is faltering, seeking through
.
its
offices to bring us to believe again in an ideal –
and
that achieving excellence is how to make it
real?
Does it depend on will or serendipity or luck?
Does
it flourish in that fluctuating moment
just
before created things appear, just before
the
lonely object is enmeshed in all the warm
accoutrements
of flesh, or does it show itself
.
right
afterward, in harsher specificity, primally
adjusting
to incarnate life right here? If it had
a
face, what would it be like? Shocked, delighted,
frightened
or excited, unknowing or omniscient,
calm
or overwhelmed? Does it describe when light
consumes
the sight from floor to rafter, illumining
us
into newness, intoxicating us with clarity?
.
Is
it the smoothing of disparity? Does it make
us
feel enormous or so tiny that we can’t believe
we
are permitted to be in its presence?
I
was told once by a poet who is greater
than
I’ll ever be: “never fill a poem up with
questions.
Let them be implicit, like a sigh.”
Oh
my. I’ll never be that kind of fancy dancer.
.
I
want an answer.
.
.
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