Tell Stories, Not Lies

I suspect that every medium of communication suffers a similar end at one point or another; poetry and all of writing has been indicted by the best at the craft for one inescapable flaw; the words at one's command are inherited rather than created, and can never fully and completely convey the true meaning of a thing. Words point toward some description, etching an outline from which point we see through a glass darkly. While your interpretations are fully subjective, your every utterance is interpretive to everyone on the planet but you. This is why poetry writing has been described like a mirror to look at yourself but also the world.

Now there are a couple of things you can do with this knowledge when you come to it, and those who did sometimes defined entire artistic movements by how they squared with this fact of the limitations of words and of the self who uses them. I am sure there are other great responses, but I have identified three primary responses, two of which are noble and enriching pursuits, and one of which is, in my subjective opinion, a blight on the whole of writing.

The first thing you can do when faced with the limitations of words and of the self that uses them, is to refine. meditate, learn, hone. Sharpen your basic tools by long, monkish devotion to the written word, tuning the basic tools of the trade into deadlier weapons and more exacting implements. While worthwhile to pursue, this method has obvious limitations and the great wordsmiths of old have found several of them; which subsequently led to many and continuing reinventions of the mediums of expression.

The second response is to adapt/innovate. This is at the root of much great art; something created with such immense meaning that it simply bursts out of the medium of expression it was intended for and spills into something new. And whether any of us "reinvent the wheel" so to speak, or not, we all innovate if we create anything worthwhile. We seek to make something new, or to say something which we believe has never been said in exactly the same way before. This is not exclusive of the first response at all, but the two usually do go hand in hand, refining and reinventing as we practice and explore.

The third response is what I consider to be anathema; a dark despondence which writers must resist at all times, but which some have given themselves over to and embraced the darkness. What I'm talking about is only barely metaphorical; darkness is not only representative of evil after all, but more accurately of the unknown. Darkness is inscrutable, meaningless, an enemy to knowledge. We only read or write anything because light itself is was perceived by the eyes and led us to create visual writing systems which vividly refract against dark ink. But some sad souls write to confound rather than enlighten, to hide rather than to illuminate. The third response is to write with the purpose and intent of not being understood.

The temptation is always there and I do not judge the writer who, like all of us do sometimes, finds himself drawn into obscurity where his words haven't met the mark or where he is unsure of how to elicit the thing he feels by means of intentional communication. This happens to all of us sometimes as we seek to pull meaning from the ether. But we must not give in to the darkness, or else we run the risk of losing all sense as we wallow in ignorance and encourage others to do the same. This is the fate of those who give this terrible response to the limitations of words and of self, acknowledging that pretense and falsehood have triumphed.

The third method could disguise itself as innovation or as meditation. It can be a carefully crafted haiku or a falsely imaginative production. At best, it sounds like something that sounds good only to the ear, but is in fact devoid of meaning. At worst, it is babble elevated to art; a bunch of adults gathered to listen to a monkey's grunts and expecting it to resonate with the conflicts of their hearts.  The third response is to perplex and confound, if possible, even oneself while scribbling inscrutable nothings and pretending to say something.

There is a big difference between layered meanings, deep meanings, subtle allusions - and no meaning at all. Deep meanings take time and effort to understand only because they are heavy for the mind to lift. We may read writings which contain deep meanings and be confounded at first, but never duped as readers. We may have to work to understand the thing in front of us, but it doesn't mean it isn't real. That is not the case with the work of those who write for inscrutability. In these cases, the not knowing is the meaning. The writer intends to create a cloak both to shield themselves and to avoid having to use imperfect words to say something imperfectly. They took the coward's way out when they saw the limitations of words and self: they became the fraudulent poets who will never have a better idea about their work than anyone else has because it is all entirely up for interpretation, because it is clay unformed and yet on display.

We ought to tell fantastic and ridiculous tales, mad rantings and crazed elegies - but may we either rant and rave with conviction, or not at all.

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