Wednesday, January 9, 2008
It has been a year and a half since I last wrote to you, my love. It is 2008. I've just finished watching the movie "capote" and the feeling of the solemn piano music of the credits is still with me. It's interesting, those moments after a good movie, before the rest of your life. A curtain call of names that you don't read as much as feel, as the whole production reveals it was just a production (these names are not our names, no people or animals were actually hurt, the scenes were shot in Oklahoma not Kansas.) The credits is this period of time when we are forced to hear the art asking us if we will allow it in some small way to change our lives. Which is why, of course, great art needs great audiences. But we've been formed for the culture of entertainment or perhaps catharsis and then release; art has become a masterbatory act. Let it be for me that way. please. Let it not be for me that way. Thank G-D it is not for me that way. It becomes this sterile, fruitless pleasure. We can let them mourn for us yes, but at some point, we must mourn for them, the potential fleshy thems who might someday push on the boundaries of our love in some harder way, the TV screen being the glass box that holds the bug we learn to love but later must learn to live with. Art sometimes provides the back door to love or hate. Backwards, perhaps. Dangerous yes. But good in its proper place, imagination the handmaiden of Truth.