a special kind of crazy

that special artist kind of crazy

When I have been taking medication for vertigo, migraines, or other illnesses that plague my otherwise healthy body, I fear that writing will reveal what I call my writer's crazy. That little piece of me that is only best used in its raw unfiltered state. But the problem with that is that it resembles that lace edge of a lady's slip when it dips below the hem of her dress. The point of the slip is to keep the dress from clinging and to let it fit better, thus, making a better visual aesthetic for the viewer and passers by. Ideally, no one should know that there is a slip beneath the dress except perhaps a seamstress or tailor. So it is with writing. I want you to see the good fit. I want you to see the result of clear thinking and careful editing. I do not want you to see the crazy that underpins the writing that I have dared to share with you. I do not need for you to know that like my Sunday dress, my Monday writing also requires a slip to keep the writing from clinging unflatteringly to my real person. My skin. My bone. My flesh. I need that distance. You see, writing takes me to a place that most people, if they are wise, would fear to peer into let alone tread. It is a place of sweet darkness wrapped around a brilliant light almost like a bulb planted in rich soil.

I fear that under the veil of mind-numbing medication, I am less of an editor and more of the uninhibited artist. Artists are difficult people to endure. We are slaves to our passions and sometimes, that means we sleep erratically. We have so much inside of us that is not always prepared for sharing and so we bear the burden of carrying that creativity inside of ourselves like a woman who knows she is with child, yet does not show. We often work in solitude but when collaborations happen, there is always the danger of inappropriate interaction from the sheer joy of being understood, if only for a moment. Then the illness of creativity returns and threatens to destroy our very normal facade. You who sleep soundly at night without being lured by the siren call of an artist's burden will never know how much work goes into wearing the mask of normalcy so that you can accept us for who we are - and often judge us for what we create. You are quick to buy our cast away products because they are easily digested. It takes a keen ear or eye to appreciate our real work because you are not trained in the openness to receive it. (Put art and music back in schools please!) You are lulled into the peace of poor production and you think that what is mass produced is best.
But those of us who know that Coltrane is not heard, but loved and experienced understand.
Those who loved Prince's work before hearing the Purple Rain soundtrack will understand.
Those who taste Bearden's colors on a canvas will understand.
We who read the sacred texts (Bible, Koran, etc) and hear something that is not on the page and defies the act of parsing or sermonizing will understand.
We who awaken to new notes yet are not equipped to transcribe, sing, or play any will understand.
We who hear turns of phrases that move us deeply will understand.
We who watch artistically inclined children struggle to be normal and normed by those who have imbibed the kool-aid of pop culture's false normal will understand.