By Tom Glassey
By far the greatest impediment in the progression of the literary movement since the New Vision is the collective consciousness of societies’ overlooking of not-so-humble typewriting. In a different sense however, the deepest kink in the armour worn by mainstream-art is the commercialisation of Wes Anderson, Ol’ Timey Scarves, Suits, Doctor Who, and typewriters. It is important to remember that.
Writing is the widest field in existence today. No person needs to be an expert in rhyme, meter, assonance, conceit, phrasing or even words in order to write in our time, if your aim is ‘the derangement of the senses’.
In a time where art is so candid a term it invokes gagging and vile, the aim must be uninhibited expression of self, for the self is the human experience for which we all must share in order to survive. Survival is of course the aim of our species, and poetry and prose up until this point has not served this cause. Our’s is a dying race. An overpopulous parasite that stuffs the gruel of our earth into our gluttonous, pre-greased mouths with one hand, while shoving our cigarette butt in the soil with the other. We pay for our art with money that is whored out by a fickle economy, money borrowed from the starving, in order to buy the repetitious and convoluted rearrangement of twenty-six letters. Yelts, Chaucer, Swift. Whatever the genre or the contribution, no doubt valuable, it is unjustifiable. Without making this a lecture of the evils of consumerism, or illusionary value of Monet in the face of a starving Ethiopian, consider this; all books, for all purposes cost the same; the cost of paper. Yet a small collection of Ginsberg can cost the same as an Encyclopaedia Britannica, even though it’s the same letters, only ranging in order, and quantity. And of course – how foolish for me to forget – quality; that unmalleable term forced upon us by Harvard PhDs.
In the time of typewriting, words truly held value. They were not just randomly spewed, as if monkeys proving the infinite. There were only two means of writing. The traditional, mediated as to avoid wasting paper, following pattern and practice, and assuring the finished product would be kissed approvingly by our forefathers. Or the New Vision, unadulterated and unfearing the ability to remedy mistakes. Writing things down is important. It is also important to remember that. Art is the nearest we ever get to understanding morality. It is what makes us human, but more importantly what assures us being human is important. It does not have to be sweet, or correct, just true. Pure. And that, can affect on a large enough scale that the crisis of existentialism and self are too small to see.
Writing works, I think at least, on levels. A scale of blissfully ignorant to pretentiously self-aware.
My opinion is not learned. It is shaped by my shared existence. And I dream of sharing my experience, and having my experience caressed and beaten by those around me. The only muse, and medium of any artist, and of course this means every human, is themselves. We must, in my most unlearned opinion, break free from the barricades, and run as if cannon fodder into the abyss, casting aside clichés and hypocrisy. We must feel free to express, for this is the only way we can understand. We are taught, to achieve. Food, then sex, then nirvana, or heaven, or sarcasm. And, my opinion has been shaped, through no-means the consent of my own being to believe this. But, I believe, for I must believe – and denying such belief to myself would simply result in a cheap superiority complex – that the answer to the question, which we have so long simply stated, without any further questioning is any and all eponymous art, the answer is achieved by setting our sights on universal understanding, not through understanding in the eyes of science, but understanding through the eyes of the soul.
Before we combust – I initially wrote fade, but the downfall of humans will be not as subtle – we must take risks, for we are the final few generations gifted with such invincibility and inconsequence. The time for proofreading and social order is obsolete. The time for deleting and backspacing is obsolete. The time for biting ones tongue and ones cheeks is over. The time for passionate, and if necessary uniformed expression is upon us. We must seize it. There is no time for research, only community.
Shared communication of the internal is the vehicle to achieving morality.