Ever Forward

Every act of creation is an act of war. The mere development of talent is the most powerful weapon we have for enhancing consciousness. Each time we create, we open our eyes — and so the eyes of humanity — just a little wider.
 
Yet the more pure the creative act, the more powerful. So, in the war for consciousness, the best effort consists not in making war, but simply in making. It consists in creation not for the sake of consciousness, but for the sake of creation.
 
Ever forward.

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Recently I watched a film about the life of Joy Division frontman Ian Curtis. It’s called Control, and I recommend it. In the previews that come before the film, there’s a trailer for a film called Joy Division, which features producers and members of the band. Someone in that line up says something to the effect of: “Most bands rehearsed and played because they wanted to be rock stars. Joy Division did it because they had no choice.”

When you listen to Joy Division, it’s clear they had something nobody else had at the time, or has had since. They were one of those unique, unrepeatable moments in music. So I listened to one of their songs recently. It’s called Autosuggestion. It seems to reflect the feeling a lot of people have, the horribly limiting sense that the world consists of preexisting grooves from which we each must choose, regardless of our creative impulse. Here’s how Curtis puts it: “Here, everything is by design. Here, everything is kept inside.” The other half of his message is clear: “Take a chance and step outside. Lose some sleep and say you tried. Meet frustration face to face.”

Not much more to the lyrics than that and the song is more than six minutes long. But it’s all Curtis needs to get his point across, and it’s all I need to get his meaning. Curtis seems to have been one of those people who had to “step outside.” His art was stronger than his hesitation and it seems he had no choice. People like that are a sign post for the rest of us, the ones who DO have a choice. The ones who CAN choose to stay inside. And I guess I have nothing to add.

Ever forward.

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Recently, my fiancé and I watched No Direction Home, the Martin Scorsese documentary about Bob Dylan. I liked everything about it, but this quote from Dylan jumped out at me and stuck: 

“An artist has got to be careful never really to arrive at a place where he thinks he's 'at' somewhere. You always have to realize that you're constantly in a state of becoming, you know? And as long as you can stay in that realm you'll sort of be all right.”

It got me thinking about my own experience of that “state of becoming,” and my own idea of what it means to be “'at' somewhere.” For Dylan, it meant moving from one incredible, high-profile artistic accomplishment toward another. He puts it this way: “In taking all the elements that I'd ever known to make wide, sweeping statements which conveyed a feeling that was the general essence of the spirit of the times; I think I managed to do that.” And then he goes on:  “I thought that I needed to press on, and get as far into it as I could.”

But what about the rest of us—those of us in the more modest echelon's of accomplishment? To understand what Bob Dylan means, you don't need to be Bob Dylan, or even Larry Fitzsimmons. (Never heard of Larry Fitzsimmons? Exactly.) I think Dylan is describing a basic human experience, something we must all face if we embrace our creativity. 

So, what is this “state of becoming?” I imagine it has aspects that are universally true, and aspects that are unique for each of us who experience it. As for the universal aspects, lot of people talk about the drive to create. An editor once told me that a writer is someone who “can't not write.” Herman Hesse talks about “obeying the inner command.” Bob Dylan had this sense that he had to get further in. Jimi Hendrix spoke of hearing sounds in his head he could not create with his guitar. Vincent van Gogh went crazy trying to portray the way he saw the world. Salvador Dali seems to have started out crazy and been successful at portraying his vision, but his drive to do that was unstoppable. James Joyce had to invent a whole new mode of language before he could even begin. I think artists are stuck with something they need to articulate or portray. In Dylan's case, he did it. But then he found that drive, that inner command, hadn't gone away. The same thing happened to Jesus. In dying, he found he wasn't “there” yet. “It is finished,” he said as he expired. But that was just the human part of him craving respite. The fact is, he was wrong. It wasn't finished. It was only just beginning.

A constant state of becoming. You might expect to find a moment of relief when the thing is done. Maybe that expectation is what keeps the artist moving. But Dylan was an expert artist, like Shakespeare, and the expectation of rest is exactly what he warns us against. He knew that once you begin, really begin, you can't ever stop. In the gospel of Luke, Jesus says it plainly: “He who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is not worthy of the Kingdom of Heaven. (Luke 9:62)” He was talking about the act of becoming. That sense of “Kingdom” is the thing that calls us on. That's Hesse's inner command. Once you heed it, you're in for keeps, or you must embrace a life of denial and disguised confusion. When Jesus says “not worthy of the Kingdom of Heaven,” I think he means “not capable” of it. And in the gospel of Matthew he says: “What profit would there be for one to gain the whole world and forfeit his life? (Matthew 16:26)” By which he means: “Better to have nothing: no success, no recognition, no money, but continue to discover who you are, than to get all those things, and stop.”

There is no rest, really. Just the danger of stopping. If I can just this or that... or... If only such and such, then... Then? Then what? THEN I'll be able to relax. THEN I'll get into that other project that seems like such a good idea. THEN I'll feel like I've made it... For me, it contains a little of this: “If I could just make enough to live on from this project, I'd be happy.”

I think that's exactly the “'at' somewhere” Dylan is warning us against.

Becoming seems to be a painful process. I think we use our minds to explain our feelings, so we can feel like we know what's going on with ourselves. So, I connect an objective to my feeling of becoming, and convince myself in lots of subtle ways that achieving that objective is what will make the feeling go away. When really I'm just feeling the sharp edge of creativity, and nothing will make it stop. What if my life as an artist consists solely of forever trying to get started—really trying, not making excuses. Not only might I never achieve recognition, but I might also, no matter how I work, never even accomplish anything. And yet the command beckons. That desire for a sense of Kingdom won't leave me alone. Would I still be willing to heed it? Could I even choose not to? In a messed up, broken human psyche, that fear of never getting there may be the inner command in disguise. It spurs me on, doesn't it? It keeps me moving. For some reason, however discouraged I become, I never seem to quit. That's GOT to count for something, even if it's only because I'm afraid of never being "'at' somewhere." And even at the height of achievement, I bet it never goes away. If van Gogh were to say to me: “I never got there, I never really even got started,” I don't think I'd be surprised.

It's very possible that one day I will make enough money to live on just from writing my books. I wonder how that will feel. I think I can assume I'll be tempted to stop. But I don't think I'll stop feeling the call. I'll be given new orders by the High Inner Command. Whatever relief comes with achievement must be fleeting. I know it has always been so for me. That's why Dylan had to keep going. That's why Larry Fitzsimmons has to keep going. If I achieve what, at this moment, I think I'm trying to achieve, I won't be finished. I'll just be getting started. I'll still be a resident of the Realm of Constant Becoming. 

Ever forward.

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A person of destiny must trust in the flow of life. For some (I imagine for everyone at times) this is just too darn scary. Risk is called risk because it's risky. My tendency is to think I have to be doing something. I have a hard time sitting back and letting things take care of themselves. The trouble is, sometimes things need to take care of themselves. Sometimes things are supposed to be left alone for a while, so they can evolve. At those times, any effort from me is actually a hinderance. 

Jesus trusted in the flow of his life. He was always balancing the active and the passive. He says things like “My time has not yet come,” and “You have no power over me accept what has been given to you by the Father,” and “Let this cup pass from me, but may your will, not mine, be done.” These are not the words of a control freak. These are the words of someone who trusts that he has done all he can, and now the raw dynamic of his life's destiny must carry. 

The danger here is to confuse well-timed passivity with quitting or giving up. Sometimes passivity is incredibly productive and necessary. Sometimes activity is self-defeating. The trick is to know when to act and when to wait. Sometimes you have no choice, and action rests in making the waiting bearable. Knowing the difference is a matter of following your heart, and fine-tuning your awareness of what your heart is telling you. I think it's safe to say that Jesus never ignored his heart.

Doing all there is to do, then waiting is the formula for success. Resisting the temptation to act at the wrong time can be hard. But a person of destiny has the advantage of commitment; having committed in advance to the achievement of a great thing that he was willing to die for, Jesus didn't turn back even when it got really rough. In those moments where passivity was the right thing, and the result of that passivity was captivity, torture and death, that awareness of purpose must surely have helped keep him going. It provides an indispensable energy.

Trust is difficult. Otherwise we wouldn't call it trust. But mixed with vision, action, instinct and patience, trust enables us to plug into the flow of the universe, to unlock and loose into our lives the very force that created life itself. It enables us to manifest that energy, in our own small way, to add to the tapestry.

It's called co-creation.

Ever forward.  

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