At the same time, I sense something like a Gestapo knock, an attempt by the real world to force itself into my carefully maintained happiness, something undeniably capable of smashing my fragile life. The pain which is unaccountable and new, which speaks of its own growth and victory, which speaks of disorder and loss in short bright stabs.
Mary Sativa, Acid Temple Ball [Amazon, Bookshop, Publisher, Local Library]
Back in 2006, Kurt Vonnegut wrote back, when asked about his work and advice, to a class of high school students suggesting a writing ritual for soul growth [via, also, also].
“What I had to say to you, moreover, would not take long, to wit: Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’s inside you, to make your soul grow.
Seriously! I mean starting right now, do art and do it for the rest of your lives.”
“Here’s an assignment for tonight […] Write a six line poem, about anything, but rhymed. No fair tennis without a net. Make it as good as you possibly can. But don’t tell anybody what you’re doing. Don’t show it or recite it to anybody, not even your girlfriend or parents or whatever […] Tear it up into teeny-weeny pieces, and discard them into widely separated trash recepticals. You will find that you have already been gloriously rewarded for your poem. You have experienced becoming, learned a lot more about what’s inside you, and you have made your soul grow.” — Kurt Vonnegut [via]
