"Art evokes the mystery without which the world would not exist." -- Rene Magritte
We must sing the world back into vital and vivid being. The heart will awaken once the task has begun. Art bestows flesh on phantoms; music spins garments for reborn flesh.
"Music is a moral law. It gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and charm and gaiety to life and to everything." -- Plato
The Imagination is a charming seductress, an enchanter of harsh Verities. Baudelaire averred that when we love we have found a means of subsisting on the essence of invisible flowers. A sublime forgetting and relearning takes hold, as lovers take up residence in redolent air.
The act of looking upon the world as if it is the face of your beloved can serve to lift life's burdens over grim landscapes, like Chagall's lovers wafting over dour, quotidian rooftops, beneath which squat the compulsive folly of foolishly earnest men.
Bring an end to the Empire of Endless Burgers by giving voice to inspiration. Bring down the walls of airless, gated subdivisions of the mind with the heart's reverberant soundscape.
Without your voice, nothing is possible, and nowhere is where you are bound.
Therefore, the only sound choice becomes... to arrive singing.
Words, Phrases, Sentences--they are more than simply verbal constructs. They are living things--the progeny of the union of the image-plangent soul of earth and sea--and the holy spirit's lambent, inhuman illuminations. We know them as the dance of affinities attendant to the mating rituals of eros and logos--the Word and Flesh made one.
At paradigm's end, buffeted and shaken--yet held enthralled within the maelstrom--by the vast and sweeping scope of unsolvable governmental/cultural forces -- we feel the pull of a gravity that feels akin to love. We yearn for some remedy, like lovers whose blazing love threatens to burn away all their moorings and upend all they know.
Thus, rejoice in this: There is rebirth, dwelling deep, in the irreparable problem we know as the world.
Find solace in the knowledge that poets (who should not be imagined as an elitist covenant of the elect--but those who have chosen to avail their hearts to the art of living in a poetic manner) are out there now: wounded by beauty; indentured to logos.
And even when exploring our current day wilderness of alienation, poets are laboring to limn a psychical map of its terrain of terror and beauty. All who live pass through this soul-plangent landscape.
Know this: It is an illusion that you have ever been alone, even within the nadascape comprising The Great Dismal of the current era.