TOO HOT TO HANDLE! We’re Touched with Fire

TOUCHED WITH FIRE: ART AND MANIA–Too Hot To Handle

 Why do people read a story? They want something bigger and more than average. An ordinary woman hooks up with and marries a Scottish Laird. They all live in a magnificent castle and enjoy boundless wealth--eh?
 No one wants to read a story,

 "Yah, I went grocery shopping and bought some carrots. Potatoes were on sale, so I bought some potatoes. I needed toilet paper."

Consider this quote from the Swedenborgian Poet, William Blake. It’s a little bigger than grocery shopping. Blake is writing about Artistic Creation in an extended metaphor of giving birth. The character “Los” symbolizes the creator, Artist. Blake isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. I like him:

 "8. The globe of life blood trembled
   Branching out into roots:
   Fibrous, writhing upon the winds:
   Fibres of blood, milk and tears:
   In pangs, eternity on eternity.
   At length in tears and cries imbodied
   A female form trembling and pale
   Waves before his deathy face
   9. All Eternity shuddered at sight
   Of the first female now separate
   Pale as a cloud of snow
   Waving before the face of Los
   10. Wonder, awe, fear, astonishment
   Petrify the eternal myriads."

Wow, eh!? That Poet is hot, literally.

 Dr. Kay Redfield Jamison wrote a research book whose title I use in my fb post: TOUCHED WITH FIRE. In her book, Dr Redfield-Jamison found that there is a higher incidence of mental illnesses in the arts community, than in the general population. Everybody always thought Artists are half-baked; Dr. Jamison gave it clinical validation.

 I said that the Poet is hot. Blake lets us into just how hot he is. Again, talking about his own character, Los. Blake compares Artistic Creation to a blacksmith amid the Fiery Forge. William Blake also draws on Alchemical Imagery:


"Los ragd and stampd the earth in his might &
terrible wrath!
He stood and stampd the earth: then he threw
down his hammer in rage
In fury: then he sat down and wept, terrified:
then arose
And chaunted his song, labouring with the tongs
and hammer."

I know this. I think all us Artists know this.

Too Hot To Handle!

ENIGMATIC DR DAVE ENTERPRISES, PRELUDED

Screenshot

ALIVE

Enumeration of my past, too much time spent in enumeration
Wondering when I ceased to live, yielding to my memories
Enumerating in my reflections accomplishments, the places I lived
Summing the life behind me fondly, calculus of accumulation
And, perhaps, a grim realization that I might have figured it all wrong
Those paragraphs written into my story as if the book were complete
One day I wondered what I was doing
The paragraphs I wrote, that made my story, what was I doing then
That I’m not doing now?  Why did I stop writing experiences
Cave and surrender to the belief that it’s all behind me
I don’t think that the COVID lockdown explains it all
Nor my preacher’s call to articulate ontic reflections
It is not even poetry’s genesis through immersion in words’ reflexivity
Scripting echoes of the muse’s enchantment
This pause from chasing living unaware, when I built those memories
It was fun, I was having fun not knowing I was writing the book of my life
That my life would pause and I would take to reading—fondly, indeed—
In the cessation of the writing process.  I realized, rather abruptly,
Like waking from sleep, I’m not done with the poesis of original text
No, I’m not done at all.  I don’t think it’s just structured relaunch
And now all restrictions are eased and I’m back at it
This re-engagement with life, this spirited recovery
Living unaware, writing again and it is no time to reflect,
I’m alive again pausing only to scrawl this note
The enumeration of which I defer to some distant calculus of memory
Mimesis of life should I turn again to find myself passively reading

SUMMER

I don’t want to write poetry today
It’s summer
We get only two months outdoors
Letters are for indoors
There will be plenty of time for poetry
Plenty of time for lamp-light reading,
Writing
Summer has my mind quiet
It’s all action in summer
And a mellowed-out placid in the heat
I don’t want to think
And I don’t want to write poetry when I’m not thinking
Winter is for thinking and writing and reading
We have so long winters

IN THE PEAK OF COVID-19

What was that I needed to get done today?

Well, nothing really—I can barely remember

When they shut us down, shut down my ambition

–“I have to what?!”—”Do what?!”–

That mandated sloth that tells me stall, stop

So I slouch upon my couch, and pass time

At times, I take the time to touch base

With a treasured book—which I never would have

Chasing time filled with needless activity

Chasing a job, a dollar, more money

No money and nothing to spend it on—

I would go to the mall, the bookstore, the casino

And with a home library filled with good books

I never did read, read now—sometimes

When I can find the incentive

And my poems that I organize to send out

Re-read, fix, edit,–search out publishers

When I can’t find the incentive

And just slouch upon the couch

And watch TV that I don’t like

Don’t like not doing what I want to get done

This mandated sloth, this slovenly lost ambition

Not even waiting for it all to be over

Just waiting on time, making time, taking time, time to get something done

Plenty to get done today, and nothing, really