admission: a few thinky thoughts
My thoughts have been crowded since we returned home from vacation. Crowded with kitchen-chores, school preparation, and personal interaction. I like that kind of busy-ness; it has something to show for itself. Multi-colored glass jars shine on the pantry shelves. Tidy piles of books and notebooks stand at the ready for the ten o'clock scholar. Friends & family move about me with ease and grace because of time invested wisely.
Equipped with such a valuable harvest, it was only last evening that I reflected on my latest acquisitions: recent memories of beautiful works of art. The rich in cash can acquire their art physically, with nary a dent in their pocketbooks. But the rich in imagination are challenged to acquire their art mentally, and what a privilege that is! Nothing quite compares to it. The few framed prints in my home only serve as gateways to my memory. I will think, "I saw that. The real, live painting." The dustcloth, textbook, or chore-at-hand must rest patiently; this thought needs space to live. Lucky for my family that we only own a few reproductions, or nothing practical would be accomplished around here.
Art is miraculous. Think about it: someone takes a wooden stick in hand. That stick may have hair tucked into one end. He (or she) coats it in ground pigment and oil and proceeds to cover a piece of wood, cloth, or paper. The creator walks away, lives his life, and possibly dies (eventually). But his work, the outpouring of his heart and mind, stays behind and continues to say amazing things. Someone like me takes it all in, and brings it home with me in my head. I actually carry it around with me, like an eternal file.
Many times I have marveled in the concert hall thusly: sticks and hair here, too. Wooden boxes which have been fashioned carefully, festooned with animal gut and ivory, and slicked with pine resin and buffed with oils, are made to sing. (Wooden boxes, for goodness sake!) Hands and breath pull sound from carved and molded wood and brass. Blotches of ink on rolls of creamy paper tell the story, excruciatingly extracted from a composer's heart. The wood and plaster of wall, ceiling, floor, and bench resound with the filagree arc which we call music.
These, and other ruminations, keep me company on a regular basis. Think of them as clues to what goes on in that factory in my head. And with those clues in hand, I'll continue to sally forth in my rewarding quest to require thought as admission to this here blog.
Equipped with such a valuable harvest, it was only last evening that I reflected on my latest acquisitions: recent memories of beautiful works of art. The rich in cash can acquire their art physically, with nary a dent in their pocketbooks. But the rich in imagination are challenged to acquire their art mentally, and what a privilege that is! Nothing quite compares to it. The few framed prints in my home only serve as gateways to my memory. I will think, "I saw that. The real, live painting." The dustcloth, textbook, or chore-at-hand must rest patiently; this thought needs space to live. Lucky for my family that we only own a few reproductions, or nothing practical would be accomplished around here.
Art is miraculous. Think about it: someone takes a wooden stick in hand. That stick may have hair tucked into one end. He (or she) coats it in ground pigment and oil and proceeds to cover a piece of wood, cloth, or paper. The creator walks away, lives his life, and possibly dies (eventually). But his work, the outpouring of his heart and mind, stays behind and continues to say amazing things. Someone like me takes it all in, and brings it home with me in my head. I actually carry it around with me, like an eternal file.
Many times I have marveled in the concert hall thusly: sticks and hair here, too. Wooden boxes which have been fashioned carefully, festooned with animal gut and ivory, and slicked with pine resin and buffed with oils, are made to sing. (Wooden boxes, for goodness sake!) Hands and breath pull sound from carved and molded wood and brass. Blotches of ink on rolls of creamy paper tell the story, excruciatingly extracted from a composer's heart. The wood and plaster of wall, ceiling, floor, and bench resound with the filagree arc which we call music.
These, and other ruminations, keep me company on a regular basis. Think of them as clues to what goes on in that factory in my head. And with those clues in hand, I'll continue to sally forth in my rewarding quest to require thought as admission to this here blog.
posted by thisrequiresthought at 6:58 AM
1 Comments:
I am here. I am commenting. Just not often because we don't have the internet at home.
And cause I'm too busy trying to keep my head on straight.
And learn all the grammar rules we never knew at 7:00 in the morning with a classroom of 40 melancholy English majors.
I'm tired. can I come home now?
Post a Comment
<< Home