What To Do About It
A prosy poem for STSC Symposium: Resolution
Four figures facing each other: non-symmetrical, call it a rhombus, on extremely awkward stools: three-legged and wooden and loose, so low the four were forced to squat, knobby knees straining, dangerous squeaks with every move, uncertain of their respective weight. A single bulb above them. Dour-faced, discomfort of sitting only secondary to the urgency of the moment, or at least they claimed. They had come here to discuss What to Do About It. The Writer, the Painter, the Musician, and the Poet. They assigned themselves responsibility for the world as it was, and the disaster they knew was coming. For the Writer, the moment could not be divided from the policies that brought it; the Painter preferred to change how everything was represented. The Musician argued it was an environmental concern, a matter of community and city planning. The Poet insisted on something spiritual, but of course she was the only one who took it to mean within herself. The others had squared their spiritual selves somewhere between their first abusive relationship and falling back on their day job. What to Do About It? Self-assigned responsibility to history. The single bulb as pale as their worried crinkling over ink-stained paper, not all scrawled by the Writer, who nevertheless had the worst handwriting of the bunch (the Musician, actually, had lovely penmanship), at this point there was the matter of manifesto, organization, and call-to-action: holding accountable themselves, how to hold accountable others, where to account for nuance, who to be the accountant, where to raise the funding, how to maintain non-hierarchical respect and influence in the presence of a budget and public attention, whether the works be published, what their price should be, how much to return to the mission, how much to return to their glory (of course none expected returns to pay their cellphone bill, but perhaps, if they started a support fund?), all the proper work of fair and balanced creative talents considering secretly their new endeavor in light of their body of work and how it'll look in the history books, for they agreed one and all that this was an historical fluxus, the intermural of monsters, widened gyres, and resolutions to figure out What To Do About It, collectively of course, but individually as well, co-leaders in meetings because the world needed a leader, new culture, new ways of thinking, and what are artists but producers of possibilities society refuses to negotiate? The four figures' special value, self-evidently, was to the potential the world left unfulfilled. (Inside one and all was the fear of their own failure of potential.) The naked bulb fluttered. They had ceased to perceive the shape and structure of their surroundings. Outside war raged... somewhere. A violation of human rights happened every minute. Statistics held the scores the economists ignored while it was the empaths' job to give suffering the face of character and story, to say, "Don't look away!" to crowds of people browsing for new entertainment. To ask of always decaying institutions to support always new institutions in the hopes of building newer institutions so their artwork could be institutionalized (and maybe pay their cellphone bill). What To Do About It? The matter meets the moment and the moment has changed. While the four figures' failed to unify, another disastrous event occurred. History, it seems, had not even not ended, it hadn't even waited. Only urgency was renewed. The stool under the Writer broke. The bulb fizzled and spit. A new war broke out... somewhere. The Painter painted the map. Poet and Musician could swear they knew someone from that country they could bring on board as a cultural consultant. The memes populated faster than their work. Their work, assuredly, was purer. This is the time to get to work. It was time Writers, Painters, Musicians, and Poets came together, met in common ground, reached out in mutual resolution, to decide—the bulb burst overhead— What To Do About It.
This prosy poem is presented for the Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) Symposium. The STSC is a small, exclusive online speakeasy where a dauntless band of raconteurs, writers, artists, philosophers, flaneurs, musicians, idlers, and bohemians share ideas and companionship. Each month STSC members create something around a set theme. This cycle, the theme was “Resolution.”
If you are a writer, you might consider joining us.
To experience my previous STSC Symposium submissions:
To read my previous Uncanny Stories:
I love this. It paints/writes/sings so much in such a tragic and beautiful way. Lovely, thank you for sharing this.