6.20.2005
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.
Many people have asked me about why I have a personal webpage, or a weblog at all. They do not know why I would want to put so much time and effort into something that probably has little or no meaning for most everybody else. Think about that. By publishing on the web in such a personal manner, we are exposing our most private and personal thoughts resonate around an infinite domain in which virtually anyone can partake. Amidst this sea of bits and bytes, we have staked a claim. We have taken up residence; we are part of a living presence in a world that exists only on a series of interconnected computers around the world. Why would we want to do this? Why would we want to continue to use our most valuable and precious time and effort to this end? The answer is the same no matter what the medium is. Art is art. It is an expression of our innermost passions and feelings. It is what drives us to “...Be more than the sum of our parts.” It is an opportunity, if even for a moment, to taste immortality.
Writing is my art. I didn’t choose it, it chose me. I don’t know why. I know many other forms of art that I love and appreciate, but words are my pigments and hues. The “white screen” is my canvas. Why I am driven to write is part of the mystery of life that is no more or less a question of why people read, view paintings, or watch movies. There is something there for us. Some spark of understanding and magic that allows us to expand ourselves. Just as many of us are drawn to the images of special affects, cameras becoming our eyes and microphones our ears, extending our reach a thousand-fold. The electronic frontier of the Internet beckons, with full-color graphics flashing before our minds like the waters of Tantalus, yet for some reason, there are still people who find the proper combination of words on a page important.
Ideas are not always preformatted pictures on a screen. They are often born from people who think and read. For many, ideas are born out of writing; the process itself is their copulation, the mergence of the neuro-chemical reactions in the brain which produce the various impulses that become the gametes of data, information, ideas, and finally, knowledge.
For knowledge is something more than the sum of its parts, it is the evolution of all that comes before it, all that reaches up through doubt, chaos, and confusion, and leads us to understanding. We do not always know or believe the same things when presented the same set of information, but articulating those differences can make it possible to find the common ground beneath our feet.
Writing is a transmission of sorts. It has a frequency and a bandwidth of its own. It clearly has a sender, and anyone who reads it automatically becomes the receiver. Exceptional writers can “attune” their writing to specific receivers, insuring that the message is clear, concise, and focused.
Writing can travel great distances, it is not limited by line-of-site, nor is it limited by time or space. Writing can reach down through the ages and tell us about what people were thinking long before we came along. Writing is done in a series of moments, that once complete, can never be replicated exactly the same way again. Reading is a series of moments in which the writer words become a living, breathing part of us, if just for a moment.
Writing is an urge, it is a desire to see, think, feel, and share thoughts with others. It is a gift, a treasure beyond all the riches of avarice. The written word, well constructed, can cause revolutions in thought and action. It can cause governments to fall, and new nations to be born. It can bring people closer together, or tear them further apart. To read is to write, and to write is to read. The two are part of the same constant. When one allows us to grow within, the other helps us to bloom outward.
Writing gives our thoughts a voice that is louder and alive with passion than we ever believed possible. Even as it resonates out wards towards others, it vibrates within. Writing provides us with the ability to transcend ourselves, to become larger than life, to affect others in a way that we might not be able to do in any other way. Our writing is a part of who we are, and when we share that with complete strangers, we suddenly live beyond ourselves and stretch out into a larger universe of possibilities. When we write, we affirm that we are alive, and that our ideas have meaning to us, and that the ideas of others affect us just as deeply. Every voice offers the opportunity of a new perspective, every word, is a stepping stone across a new stream of consciousness never crossed before. Why write? To be heard, to rejoice in the moments of your life, to cross the gulf between yourself and others. Writing is a choice. Either we choose to be heard, or we become another drone, wandering through the din of faceless silence, adrift in an endless sea of apathy.
In his entire life, poet Walt Whitman only published one book of poetry he called Leaves of Grass. The difference with Whitman was that he kept adding to that one book and republishing it throughout his lifetime. It became a never-ending anthem for him. It would be his companion, his journal, his being, and his soul. His works were never really finished until he was. That is the true answer written so clearly by all writers of all times and all places.
O Me! O Life!
O ME! O life!..of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.
-Walt Whitman
©2005, J.S.Brown
0 comments
Writing is my art. I didn’t choose it, it chose me. I don’t know why. I know many other forms of art that I love and appreciate, but words are my pigments and hues. The “white screen” is my canvas. Why I am driven to write is part of the mystery of life that is no more or less a question of why people read, view paintings, or watch movies. There is something there for us. Some spark of understanding and magic that allows us to expand ourselves. Just as many of us are drawn to the images of special affects, cameras becoming our eyes and microphones our ears, extending our reach a thousand-fold. The electronic frontier of the Internet beckons, with full-color graphics flashing before our minds like the waters of Tantalus, yet for some reason, there are still people who find the proper combination of words on a page important.
Ideas are not always preformatted pictures on a screen. They are often born from people who think and read. For many, ideas are born out of writing; the process itself is their copulation, the mergence of the neuro-chemical reactions in the brain which produce the various impulses that become the gametes of data, information, ideas, and finally, knowledge.
For knowledge is something more than the sum of its parts, it is the evolution of all that comes before it, all that reaches up through doubt, chaos, and confusion, and leads us to understanding. We do not always know or believe the same things when presented the same set of information, but articulating those differences can make it possible to find the common ground beneath our feet.
Writing is a transmission of sorts. It has a frequency and a bandwidth of its own. It clearly has a sender, and anyone who reads it automatically becomes the receiver. Exceptional writers can “attune” their writing to specific receivers, insuring that the message is clear, concise, and focused.
Writing can travel great distances, it is not limited by line-of-site, nor is it limited by time or space. Writing can reach down through the ages and tell us about what people were thinking long before we came along. Writing is done in a series of moments, that once complete, can never be replicated exactly the same way again. Reading is a series of moments in which the writer words become a living, breathing part of us, if just for a moment.
Writing is an urge, it is a desire to see, think, feel, and share thoughts with others. It is a gift, a treasure beyond all the riches of avarice. The written word, well constructed, can cause revolutions in thought and action. It can cause governments to fall, and new nations to be born. It can bring people closer together, or tear them further apart. To read is to write, and to write is to read. The two are part of the same constant. When one allows us to grow within, the other helps us to bloom outward.
Writing gives our thoughts a voice that is louder and alive with passion than we ever believed possible. Even as it resonates out wards towards others, it vibrates within. Writing provides us with the ability to transcend ourselves, to become larger than life, to affect others in a way that we might not be able to do in any other way. Our writing is a part of who we are, and when we share that with complete strangers, we suddenly live beyond ourselves and stretch out into a larger universe of possibilities. When we write, we affirm that we are alive, and that our ideas have meaning to us, and that the ideas of others affect us just as deeply. Every voice offers the opportunity of a new perspective, every word, is a stepping stone across a new stream of consciousness never crossed before. Why write? To be heard, to rejoice in the moments of your life, to cross the gulf between yourself and others. Writing is a choice. Either we choose to be heard, or we become another drone, wandering through the din of faceless silence, adrift in an endless sea of apathy.
In his entire life, poet Walt Whitman only published one book of poetry he called Leaves of Grass. The difference with Whitman was that he kept adding to that one book and republishing it throughout his lifetime. It became a never-ending anthem for him. It would be his companion, his journal, his being, and his soul. His works were never really finished until he was. That is the true answer written so clearly by all writers of all times and all places.
O Me! O Life!
O ME! O life!..of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.
-Walt Whitman
TANSTAAFL!
©2005, J.S.Brown
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