logic takes a hike

One of the big reasons I love art and words and creativity and writing is that they’re enchanted. They’re effective to a degree that goes way beyond the kind of logic that steps from A to B to C. Creations are like secret decoder rings, giving us access to the infinity of the mind, which goes way beyond anything limited by time and physicality.

What’s your answer if I ask you, “What do you look like?” You could answer directly, with factual descriptions of your features, as if I’d asked, “How do you look?” but would that really give me the most accurate sense of how you look?

As soon as like enters the scene, comparison and metaphor shove in for a shot at giving me more of a sense of the real you. Poets know this and fill their lines with comparisons, making us swoon with instant understanding.

I look like my mother and my grandmother, to a degree that causes alarm at family reunions, where people who knew my grandmother gaze at me with fascinated, gooey affection (my grandmother was spectacularly, wonderfully kind), and my aunts keep accidently calling me Nancy, my mom’s name, because I’m the spitting image of their sister. They get a triple love whammy when they look at me because they see all three of us at once. It’s pretty fun for me. This is a photo of my grandmother. It might as well also be a photo of me and my mother (well, except for the hairstyle).

But if I want you to know more of the whole story of me, if I want to help you know who I am by telling you or showing you an expanded range of what I look like, I’ll need to show you other images, too.

For example, I also look like this autumn tree, because, like me, it’s alive and growing and has a personality and speaks and shines and transforms itself and loves being outdoors and uses sunlight for fuel and feels good standing alone while also being part of a scene and rooted in the ground. This particular tree is also the spitting image of me.

I could make all sorts of albums of images and art and word descriptions of what I’m like and each one would give you another hint of another facet. You could do the same thing, of course. In fact, you do, every time you create something. That blog post you wrote is like you, so is that photograph you took, and that casserole you baked, and that child you made, and so is everything you feel an affinity with.

Writing and creating don’t have to be logical to make sense. Point yourself. Like something. It will like you back. You will be like each other. Then everything you create will include it. The reflections will be brilliant.

 

 

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