We have just had a mixed media poetry performance ( or endless vitriolic political rant with celebratory cliches ), here in the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture. The poet just wanted to add some colorful beauty to surround and lift the words. Apparently not so elevated as to be pushed into awe, just some run-of-the-mill beauty. But the bubbles were destroyed; there was little hope, they wouldn’t quite stay in the air, sorta just crashed, unnumbered.
After the first thousand attempts, there should have been an outpouring of communal joy. The happiness of seeing the not-so-good get smashed, and then the succeeding attempts; watching a human ( poetic to be sure ) enclose words that resonate, sing and harmonize, and pulsate enlivening other words. That shoulda been a party, it would unite. It seems like a happy haptic public poetic sequence, but we missed it. There should have been a holiday marking the thousandth failure. But it is so long ago and didn’t seem then like a notable event, and now no ceremony is likely.
Yorick, who ponders both the comic and the tragic, would be happy to help the poet. He knows that first there is pain (more than a smashed finger), sometimes then, clawing; that inability to reach beauty, not to mention Awe ( the overwhelming). But anyhow, there is pain, then the reality, something has to be done, then the hope that something may improve the originating pain, then the effort (scribbling), money (if lucky ), then stuff, the manipulation, arriving at – the imperfections. Followed by maybe enclosing all in modern media bubbles, for safe keeping.
Yorick, being born of “olde”, doesn’t quite get the isolation, no matter the utility.
The bubble may be the modernist’s most significant enterprise. That ability to enclose things, quotes, economic plans, political slogans; separating deeds and words. Bubbles, bubbles make people happy, don’t they? But bubbles, real bubbles, happy bubbles don’t need utility: they just are – floating away in the breeze.
Some bubbles don’t even have air, they are built, big expletive markers helping the poetic anarchist emote.
They replace having a touchable community in completing the poets deeds.
Next Saturday we begin to celebrate something easier, the Season.