There are jaded souls – who have lived through some tragedy or calamity (or a series of miserable misadventures) who take their pain as hard won wisdom, to be able to see through the pretty lie that happy folk believe in – that their pain is a set of hip, ultra pensive shades, through which they can see through bullshit.
There are serene souls – who have lived in love and happiness (or if not, had some spark of fortune that allowed them to hold on to serenity regardless). They see their sheltered serenity as wisdom, able to see behind the black clouds floating over the jaded souls, brooding selfishly, waxing Byronic.
“And which is wisdom?” I ask my rubber raven, staring down at me (plastic-gem eyes of a demon’s seeming) from my bookshelf (one day I’ll scrounge the money to get him a pallid bust of Pallas…perhaps plastic as well).
Why is a rubber raven like a writing desk? Well…for starters, neither of them will answer questions, queries, nor conundrums, no matter how little sleep I’ve had.
Neither is wisdom. Both are just tunnel vision. We can see the world in larger frames, outside of ourselves, but it’s easier to assume the whole ball of it is as it is through our tinny perception-goggles.
“Oh…my mother was a crack whore, killed all my pets, and put out cigarettes in my eyes. Surely the world is a black pit of despair, since this happened to me – surely God does not exist…and he’s an asshole.”
“Oh…my family sat around the tree, every Christmas, hugs all around, my life is a long Hallmark card. Surely the world is fine – surely I am a snow flake, carefully cut by a benevolent deity.”
Because, whispered a voice, many serene souls are one tragedy short of being jaded – and where did there serene wisdom go then? And every jaded soul knew, intellectually, that bad things happen and they knew this before their personal tragedy – and so their jaded wisdom is cheaply bought, an emotional backlash, adolescent and black.
No wisdom there, neither on the z nor the y. Wisdom must be won on another axis. On another plane. Off the map. Here there be dragons.
This, my rubber raven said unto me.
“But you just claimed that rubber ravens and writing desks can’t speak,” you might be saying. And that is true, I said neither could answer questions…but combined…
…give me a writing desk and I can conjure animus, to animate a rubber raven (plastic molded shape of a Native trickster god who stole the sun from the sky), by my so potent art.