Random Notes From Halfway Up Wednesday's Wall

…on the one hand, the correct political line is demanded of the poet; on the other, one is justified in expecting his work to have quality. Such a formulation is of course unsatisfactory as long as the connection between the two factors, political line and quality, has not been perceived. Of course, the connection can be asserted dogmatically. You can declare: a work that shows the correct political tendency need show no other quality. You can also declare: a work that exhibits this correct tendency must of necessity have every other quality.

—Walter Benjamin, “The Author as Producer,” Address at the Institute for the Study of Fascism, April 27, 1934.

We are born to be awake, not to be asleep!

—Paracelsus, “Toil, A Divine Commandment”

I’ve been thinking about purely private obsession, the grip of the wholly inexplicable. The claiming desire, some fascination –sometimes kink, sometimes compulsion– that puts down roots in your young skull and stakes a permanent camp. Some ceaselessly hectoring curiosity that won’t leave you alone, and ultimately defines you and how you’ll spend (or waste) your time and what you’ll want from your life.

It’s a narrowing, and generally happens early. A box your head puts you in and won’t ever let you out of. Childhood’s brand. You will love me always. You will follow me forever, and wherever I lead. You will serve me until the end of your days.

There are a million tiny and ridiculous ways you can be sidetracked and carried away, from the narrowest path off the main trail to a pitiful, dribbling creek or the most destructive, raging cataract.

You become a hostage to who you are, to what you want, what fascinates you, what breaks you down, what holds you under; the sense you feel compelled to build, the truth you try so helplessly to construct, who you ultimately and helplessly are.

All of this, of course, by way of trying to justify –to myself, to my wife, to the great, wondering world– my unchallenged status as the King of the Party Titans. I’m sorry, honey. It’s too late to turn back now. You married a man who was put on this earth to party with a ferocity that is –thank God– beyond the comprehension of most mere mortals. And with royalty comes responsibility, which is why I feel compelled to beg off on the opera Saturday night, so that I may assume my rightful place in the plush seats of the State Theater for the Pink Floyd Laser Spectacular.