The Poetry of the Soul

Why is it that certain circumstances bring out the artist in us?  I’m not talking about the inspiration of comparison, the excitement we get at seeing another’s creative work and wanting to do something just as good ourselves, which has half-prompted my recent attempts at song writing and video making (none of them finished yet).  I’m speaking instead of something more nebulous, perhaps the touch of a good Muse, overflowing us with creative juices.

I slept later today than I have in some time, until 1:30 pm, probably catching up on some much-needed rest.  I dreamt for the first time in as long as I can remember, something about a very angry shortish man, possibly Asian, maybe an irritable Genghis Khan, who I had to placate and attend to.  Now I can’t sleep, unable to relax and distracted by a host of wayward thoughts, some of them with no relevance to my waking life.  These nighttime distractions scurry around in my head, chasing each other with new permutations and wordings.  Eventually, I have an entire complete poem (though I’m not sure it’s any good, my perception being hazily on the edge of sleep) running around in my head.  What can I do but get up from my comfortable bed, turn the light on again, and search out the supplies to write the whole thing down?  If my mind is flowing with milk and honeyed words like the promised Canaan, what can I do but spit them all out in a tasteful kind of word-vomit?  Would anything else be a denial of my ‘gift’?  Or will such midnight writing prove to be a black mark against my reputation as a writer in the morning light?

I cannot at the moment judge.  If I should die before waking, as some midnight paranoias have whispered in my head, some other hand will have to seek out my night’s frantic scribbles and decide for themselves.  All I can do for now is spit forth what I have bundled and packaged, and hope that these dribbles my soul has chosen to leak out now have some eventual worth.  Perhaps the writing will at least allow me to sleep, quieted in the comfort at having done something at the end of the day.

Log Beats Glass.

In a corollary to the ancient and incontestable rules of Rock, Paper, Scissors, this was recently exemplified in a Random Act of Vandalism. My friends Jeanne and Lauren were at the receiving end of the RAOV when their living room window was shattered by a flying log. With this new example, it has been proven once again that glass – even double-paned glass – will not stand against propelled-massive-stick-with-a-pointy-end. Though the propellant (or propeller?) has not yet been found by the police, nor a motive discovered (J&L had recently moved into the area and had not had time to build up the usual pool of enemies/arch-nemeses), no physical harm was caused. Hopefully they’ll get all that glass cleaned up and a new window in short order.

While discussing the matter with my co-worker Corina, I kept repeating the title phrase of this post to refute her comments concerning the smallness of the log, the strength of double-paned glass, and the possible results of the same situation with slightly different circumstances. What if the window had been triple-paned? Log beats glass. What if the log had been less pointy, or less forcefully propelled? Log beats glass. It just gets funnier every time you say it.

After several rounds of discussion, my repetition led me to another question. What other similar principles were actively present in our everyday lives without our notice? Of course, there are the obvious ones like soap beats dirt or overly large coat beats winter. Still, it makes me wonder at those truths that do not impinge on my consciousness, thought they are physically present and consistently true, without shattering consequences. Any ideas?