To some, the mere thought of creativity is anathema. It is primordial ooze, chaos. It is also rampant egoism and drama: the thought that YOU, yes YOU can conjure up anything of meaning, purpose, that has effects. The notion of swimming in chaos to create an individual artificial reality through force of will is nothing more than the desperate act of a tortured psyche battling to grasp its fundamental reality.
Which is a pretty accurate summation I feel. Of course it is an egoistic action. It requires a sense of self from which the creation can be differentiated. Of course it comes from a psyche battling to deal with our reality. Our reality is flawed, some might say broken. And yes it is terrifying because it is dealing with chaos. Boundary-less, black, infinite chaos. Which is also an accurate portrait of every day in modern life once you remove the convenient narratives of gender roles, class structures, ethics, morality and law.
There is no reality, there is only vague consensus about which parts of what we experience we will condone or condemn, entertain or reject. This is not desperate. This is a practical reaction to an environment where even our feeble five senses deliver a daily deluge of raw data that we cannot hope to process efficiently. No wonder we have habits, routines. They filter out so much of the crap. Or they provide a simple narrative that simply obscures it as if it were never there. Much like a good poem or a novel or a rock n roll song.
As humans we don’t get to choose whether we escape the greater reality we inhabit. We just get to choose the narrative which we deploy to do so. Not to deploy one would result in insanity or maybe absolution and release from the mill of life, pain and death. But those released aren’t talking.
Man’s desire to impose order on reality is the birth of what we often fondly refer to as civilisation: that mainly brutal process of forcing others to accept what we perceive of as reality. Which has given us technology, art, modern life. Which has caused chaos, modern psychology, virtual lives, cults and drug lifestyles.
This is the stuff of novels. It’s all very well to dip the soup ladle of your pen into the primordial soup of the unclassified matter which hurtles around and through us on a second by second basis. It is another to find a receptacle for what you spoon out. It is another to know what to make of what you spoon out. Sometimes it’s better to think about what you WANT before you pop the red or the blue pill. Because it will affect the result. Because every experience is coloured by how we think about what we think about.
So, vomiting for the new novel has worked… to a point. But now I need a point, or at least some kind of a defined bucket so I can decide what vomit to catch and what to let go.
Nice metaphor huh?