Hello All (by which I mean 3 followers who I don’t believe actually read my work),
I haven’t posted much on here lately because I have been busy as shit. The few poems I have written go towards things at my university and whatnot. Anywho, I’ll try to keep this thing going for no reason other than that it’s something I can do.
One’s mind tends to wander untethered when circumstance and laziness come together to create a vast expanse of leisure time, and it is with this time that I have come to ponder the nature of beauty. Aesthetics is a philosophical topic as old as time, or at least as old as the phrase “as old as time.” What then, is beauty? Why the distinction, why the difference from a thing’s ‘normal’ look? Why the associated emotions and feelings that beauty invokes; those myriad beings praised by the great poets and would-be hacks alike?
To me, beauty is the momentary glimpse of the real, the briefest second when the veil of perception fades and the very being of the object is seen in its ‘trueness’. Such an occurrence is unique and can never be repeated precisely as it does in that moment. This uniqueness, the (perhaps subconscious) realization that one was privileged to see something in such a way that no one will ever see again, is what invokes the sublimity one finds in beauty.
What follows beauty is its own reverberation, an echo of what has been and what is no longer. The moment of beauty was perfection; all that comes after is the memory of perfection, entombed for eternity in the “image.” The moment of beauty, brought about by the intersection of Time, Perception, and Object, thus lives on in a distorted form, always inferior to that previous moment. This inferior beauty is what is portrayed in art, music, writing and memory. Of course, this image can invoke another moment of beauty in the observer, fully separate from the original moment. The concept of Art as Institution (that art that becomes the anchor of all future art) functions quite strongly on this level.
The tragedy of our existence is that we are always slightly removed from everything around us. Language, thought, the senses- all collaborate to create a deep abyss for the most part impossible to cross. Beauty then, is that rare moment when we can cross, when the bridge that connects to the ‘thing’ is revealed. It is a moment that I can only describe (perhaps inappropriately) as spiritual.
Such an idea of beauty is romantic and of a mystic nature. It is a concept embraced by the fool. I am a fool by choice and by trade. So I don’t ask you to agree with me. After all, beauty is what it is. I think it is up to the thinker to decide precisely what that ‘is’ is.
How is one supposed to be in the atomic age?
knowing that mere chance
holds back the finger
that pushes the button,
that death can be instant
(which is nothing new)
on a massive scale
(that is the novelty)
that what follows is a blank landscape
irradiated and rotting,
that all the whimsy and culture and laws and truths
are nothing in the colorless heat.
in a world
that balances on a pin point
what use are pleasantries
and meaningless ados
the future is blank
and night seems eternal.