Artistic Sensibilities and All That Jazz

Artistic Sensibilities and All That Jazz 

"Whatever exterior, outward behavior we see is only a manifestation of an effort to bring about inner equilibrium. In addition, we loudly condemn others what we don't like about ourselves. Thus, alcoholics often laugh at drunks instead of expectedly exhibiting empathy; fat people complain of others being over-eaters. Hypocrisy is often a sign of a cognitive embarrassment and a moral failing. Truly moralistic people laugh off at absurdities or just maintain silence. The loudly we condemn others, the more we identify with them, and are in fact like them. I am not yet moralistic because I still practice condemnation. I am working on that, I mean, on being moralistic, not on condemnation, LOL. There will be a day I will be silent. The world will cry then. People will miss me. I am sure of that. 

Yes, dreaming is like jumping into a river on fire. Only dreamers would do that. 

Sometimes, my words leapt, danced, and did all strange pirouettes. Though my words came from me and were part of me, I am bigger than them. Stupid people, like the midgets, think words are all I have, without realizing I am an artist with words. I control them, not the other way around although they appear to do so at times. Buddhism (and Wittgenstein as well) stresses that words sometimes are a hindrance to understanding, and we must go beyond words. Hence, my poem, "Heart to Heart, Eyes to Eyes".

The above words were reproduced from the emails I wrote to a new dear friend whose artistic sensibilities seem to be in the same wavelength, the same zone of consciousness as mine. Tonight is Sunday night. I am right now at the gym. Pop music is blaring from the speakers. The same beat over and over again. I don't care much for contemporary pop. I prefer the oldies of 60's through 80's. Since the 1990's, I have stopped listening to American music unless I can't help it, like where I am right now. I am riding a stationary bicycle and typing these words on an iPad. I am a multi-tasker. So, my legs are pumping while my fingers are following the command from my brain and in the background there is an incessant, percussion

sound with the refrain "I can't let you go" assaulting my ears. Since the 1990's, I've been listening to Spanish-language pop music. I am not saying I comprehend all the songs. My Spanish is not that good. But with some songs, I catch most the lyrics, and I feel invariably mellow and peaceful and good about myself. Good music transcends linguistic boundaries. There are some Chinese language songs I don't know a damn thing what they are about, but I definitely like the melodies. 

I felt good today. I made some money. I wrote some nice paragraphs. I even translated into pretty nice Vietnamese my own-hard-to-come-by English poem, "Heart to Heart, Eyes to Eyes". Today somebody at work remarked that I was an uncommon man, an artist (sic!). I asked him, "how do you know?" His reply was, "I could tell right away. The way you carry yourself. The way you talk. The subjects you care about."

He was not the first one to say that I had artistic sensibilities. Several persons, men and women, have made similar observations. I just have to say, yes, I am an artist with words. I use them very creatively, bringing astonishment, consternation, joy and pleasure to those who get past the accent and the envy and the annoyance. It has been quite a development for a boy who didn't speak until he was almost three. And when he did, he stuttered and mispronounced sounds. His mother was worried. She took him to a kindergarden school and asked the teacher for assessment. At the end of the day, the teacher told the mother, "Don't you worry a thing. That boy of yours is bright. He catches on real quick. Look at him. Look at his bright, sparking eyes, his good-looking face. He can't be a retard". 

I sure was not. Although I never was a serious student until the age of 15, I made my grades year after year. Anyway, tonight is the night for unabashed self-praise and self-advertisement because I am happy and I hope she is happy, too, whoever she is and wherever she may be. 

My life is an open book. A vertically challenged (aka midget, dwarf, short) and of ample size (aka fat, obese, gluttonous) Jewish woman kindly lectured me that I needed to be more polite and politic and privacy-minded with my new friend otherwise I would lose her eventually. My reaction is that I am an old man, way past the age to be careful and circumspect. I've got to be me. I am a man without a real country, no real family, no real future, and sexually inadequate. I do have some money, though, much more than I let on and in spite of being a tightwad, women of all ages have been drawn to me and want to marry me. I don't know why. Maybe I do possess charm and animal magnetism in abundance. Having good looks and keeping myself in good shape do help, I suppose. 

But where am I? I was digressing. I apologize. Talking about myself is a pleasure I cannot suppress. Ah, I remember now. I was talking about artistic sensibilities. I do respect artists of all stripes. Being artistic was a gift, a fluke of neuronal wiring. Either you have it or you don't. No happy medium in between. Another vertically challenged woman, this one of Vietnamese descent, once laughed at my poetic efforts. My reply and challenge to her was, "You just sit down here for four hours and see if you can come up with a poem. I bet you $100 that you cannot because you don't have it within you. I can tell right away you don't have a gift of gab, a way with words. Words don't come to you fast and clear and in rhythm and rhyme. You are an ungifted, ordinary plain Jane. You are part of the stupid majority, that is to say, you are a nobody, if not downright stupid". She has stopped mocking about my poetry ever since.

My new friend can write poetry and can paint. She does have some facility with words. She understands my words and know where I am coming from. What else do I ask for? 

Both VC (vertically challenged) women have been extremely annoyed and angry with me now that I have definitely written them off my life (I could only put up with stupidity and boredom for so long) and have been busy issuing jeremiads and philippics and denunciations of me. Sorry, ladies, you had your chances. Don't blame me. Blame yourself and/or your genes. If only you had learned to be nice and kind and lady-like, then I probably would have stuck around longer. 

November 3, 2013