Notes From the Lost Generation:
The Stories We Tell
Life is essentially part truth and part fiction. Our realities as real as our fantasies. Our fantasies, sadly, not all that fantastic.
Mostly. Not always. We can try harder.
You could say that my life is based on a true story. Mostly. My story. My truth. You have yours, and one needs only to find it.
The stories. The cover stories. What we do and what we say and what we murmur to ourselves silently at night so that we might sleep. This is not where to look.
What is the difference between it all, quite honestly? If our perception shapes our world, and more and more evidence (a suspicious word at best) proves that it does, where can we think to draw a line?
I proffer there is no line. There are no boundaries. And by extension, no limits. It’s a wonderful thing, though quite often ignored. Because it can also be wildly uncomfortable.
People seem to want to define the edges of their understanding. Desperately at times. Scrounging to explain and extrapolate meaning. There is no Meaning. Not as we hope for it. There are small meanings. Small things that keep our breath flowing in and out, day to day. And that is enough I feel. That should be enough. For in these spaces we create ourselves. We define ourselves and make up our stories. We live out the lives we want to, in the fashion we imagine.
It’s all quite simple in the end. Again, mostly.
Resist much, obey less.
I find that the common attitude is that life without categories is too unmanageable, too scary. We create our boxes and file accordingly. Like the wooden shapes a child plays with. The square shape will not fit into the star-shaped hole. Life is like this, we think. We can manage this way. We can function. We have internalized our dyadic constructions. We have internalized a false hierarchy. We know where to place the square block.
But take away our delineations, our demarcations, our false conceptions – and we are lost. We struggle to wade through the unfamiliar tide of the unknown. The un-labled. The misunderstood.
For the time being we face confusion. It’s part of the process.
There is no capital-T Truth. My unrealities, my tiny truths, are as vibrant and real as others in their scrambling for definition. In their scrambling for purpose.
Yet, how strange it is to be anything at all.
Are you gifted with enchantment and girded with wonder? Do you have the mad sound?
Throw off the shackles.
Mock those who tell you you’re living in a dream world. Dream your own reality. Camp out on the shores of reality.
The voices will creep in at times and tell you this is all not so. This is not the way to do things, the way in which to go about life. Shut out those voice. Quiet them. Create fantastic stories around your life that will quench the self-doubts, the deadening constructs, the bland march of civilization and society.
Remember that men & women are infinitely ecstatic, infinitely suffering beings.
Art is life and life is art. We are chameleons in an nonlinear world. Possibility is simply where we find it, how we create it, and ultimately endless.
The jumping off point? Subversion of the status quo in both mind and body. Subversion of the spirit.
Speak up. Act out. Silence is complicity.
Through art, create [your own] order out of the chaos of living. Make it new news. Write beyond time. Reinvent the idea of truth. Reinvent the idea of beauty.
I know of no better way to exist. I know of no better way to survive.
Don’t let it be said of you that sluggish imagination drowned out the slush of your heart.
Wake up, the world’s on fire!
And that’s rather exciting, wouldn’t you say?
© StephiaMadelyne 1st May 2013
excerpt from Notes From the Lost Generation: A Manifesto by Stephia Madelyne Kascher
Quotations courtesy of Lawrence Ferlinghetti, ‘Poetry as Insurgent Art’