The Epidemiology of Art

I believe the highest form of art manifests itself not only from within moldy libraries or padlocked museums. No. It escapes. By virtue so human, so inescapably practical, it enshrines itself in the lives of all who experience and bear witness to it. It sticks, it is virulent, it is a disease that clings to the soul and stains the subconscious.

Like a song, like that song I heard in the coffee shop.  Above the din of chattering strangers, the trampling of feet, the hoots and heavings of the espresso machine, a sly tune finds its way into my ear, down my spine, into my heart.

Within my head I exclaim, "Unbelievable! Is it talking to me? Why does it make so much sense? How could I have lived without it for so long? What is it's name?" And for that brief instant I believe that someone out there gets me--and they sang about it, too.

Touching someone, that's the power of art.

It's like someone managed to rein in all my hopes and fears, saddle it up with allegory, and then yoked it with metaphor.  I want that. There are days that I spin and spin, and all I wish for is some semblance of control, if for only a brief glimpse of understanding.  I hope to harvest insight through art.

And finding your art is a lot like rediscovering life: learning the best way to tell people what we see in our life led me to re-examining experiences and plunging into new ones, continuously and consciously hurtling along in this world we are all hopelessly trapped in and have no other recourse but to parrot.

And those who parrot well enough get a Pulitzer. No one cares if it's the truth, as long as everyone agrees an idea is infectious enough, catches fire among abandoned psyches and spreads like a pandemic--like the truth would.

This is the future. And in the future, any seemingly-truthful idea can scatter farther and faster than ever before. In this day and age, anyone can be an artist, anyone can have an opinion, and everyone has a mouthpiece. The world is primed for a revolution of thought. Where is your flag? Have you readied your sword? And what spoils go to the victor?

I realize now that art, literature, writing, they're all copycats, mere reflections and attempts to say something smart, pithy, interesting about life, another vague attempt to squeeze some meaning out of life, polish yet again another heavily worn facet of life.  Art is the sum of all our vented frustrations about being alive, a philosophy for the radical who prefer explanations framed, sculpted, and in rhyme.

And yet here I am, infected by terrors of my own existence and left no other choice but to write about it.