Creativity is great, but plagiarism is faster

(Shawn Feeny, Mr. Tambourine Man)


"Talent is like the marksman who hits a target which others cannot reach; genius is like the marksman who hits a target, as far as which others cannot even see."
-Arthur Schopenhauer

In the article I was reading, this quote was cited. Logically enough, the writer asks the question, then how does anyone know if the genius hits the target? Something like this was cooking in my head after reading the quote, but I couldn't put it into plain language. Frustrated with my inability to express myself, I decided the quote itself had missed the target. Next, I wondered how I could be sure, since the target was out of my sight. Realizing I was quickly distancing myself from both genius and talent, I stopped to consider it differently.

Here is a reinvisioning: Talent is taking the concept of an idea and creating an intelligent--albeit unoriginal--variation; genius is taking the original idea, stripping it of its variations, and deconceptualizing it until only the idea remains.

That is among the most convoluted sentences I've ever bothered writing. I wouldn't have if I didn't firmly believe that genius isn't spinning people around until they're too dizzy to understand or care about an erudite theory. To me, true genius lies in the ability to arrive at complex knowledge, and be able to distill it into a simple, even practical, truth. This kind of genius counts for something. The kind of genius where only one person can have certain knowledge is a sad, lonely genius.

After an unintentional sabbatical from blogging, I'm back--in a big way. Anyone who bothers to read this has become familiar with my tendency to ignore it for long periods of time; for that I apologize. Much has been happening since I last posted anything. So much that I'm just going to skim the flurry of activity with snippets of my life, postcards from the last few months.




Who Doesn't Like Bullet Points?

• Paul Simon: the english language doesn't contain enough superlatives to describe the better half of S & G. I grew up listening to their music, but I've never taken the time to listen to his solo work. Now that I have, I feel like some curious void I never knew has been filled.

• Spring Break: nothing glamorous, hedonistic, or expensive. Emma came to visit from Annapolis, and the two of us--the only two on break--proceeded to live out of my car for a week, touring LA and the surrounding area, visiting ID friends. We also went sailing one cold, but not particularily windy afternoon. We're clearly photogenic types.

• LSAT Prep: I've finally given in to the dark side. Although I'd like to go to grad school for writing, I've become attracted to internation law/international relations, amping up my interest in law school. As a result, I'm studying for the LSAT, which, on my idea of fun scale, is somewhere between a paper cut and third degree burns.

• Of course, I'd never let something like that interfere with my writing. I recently completed a story about Shanghai: Where There's Smoke, There's Mortality

Here's a brief excerpt:

The rusted boat’s railings were adorned with musical shapes: violins, eighth-notes, treble clefs, key signatures—it would have been a party liner, full of mirth and dancing. Its passengers lonely expats and wealthy locals cruising up and down the Huangpu, worries jettisoned into the muddy water while the city sweltered in the stifling heat of summer.
Drunk with affluence, they would've danced—fast, slow, wobbly—until the waiters were empty and the glasses had gone to bed and the moon didn't stagger in the water. Restless and hung-over the next morning, they'd argue over foreign wars and swap celebrity gossip. The night would come all too slowly. And they would dance again, sharing the touch of a partner. Touch held them together, forced them to see their being—laughing, dancing, breathing…
But it was rusting and they were dead.

• Cello: a friend has a cello here at school. For awhile now, I've been toying with the idea of picking it up again, but I don't have my cello down here. Anyway, I was at his apartment, and played his. Everything came rushing back, and I realized that playing is a form of catharsis essential to balancing my hectic life at school. Now, I want to start playing again, and bring it back to school in the fall. The summer will tell if I can sustain the drive missing during my teen years.

My thoughts are scattered. There are too many stories to tell. I'll just have to be more diligent in updating this thing.

Get to the point.

But the sky and the sea and the sun are so radiant, and you won't...won't experience the setting where these things happen.

I see them every day. I've seen them in every season and shade you can look up to describe their uniqueness.

Oh, but don't you know God is in the details? How can you relate to the characters if you don't know which one hates the smell of grass clippings after a sprightly spring rain?

No one likes that smell. I'm perceptive; let me make my own inferences.

But you'll get them wrong. You'll misinterpret the imagery unless I give you subtle foreshadowing. A black cat skulking in the shadows; a white flower floating in the gutter. How can it walk without legs to carry it?

I don't want a story that's going to walk out on me. Stick to the story and spare me the details.

They come and go, the boats and barges,
Up and down the Huangpu River.

Lonely skippers send mournful
Wails over water
In warning to the ferry
Shuttling passengers
In the shadow of
Ocean liners.

Doves wing over the boardwalk,
Swooping low across the water,
Soaring high above the railing
To perch on a lighthouse
Weather vane

A salty, bronze sailor clutching
His helm eyeballs each ship
Passing the Bund, waiting
For his inamorata

Two lovers pause at
The railing,
Twisted and tangled,
Comingling in arms
And elbows

She pulls away, proudly,
Brushing her smell from
His shoulders
Hoping
His scent will linger

Tomorrow’s
Fog will hide
Her farewell,
And she will wait
Like a statue

They come and go, the lovers and lost,
Up and down the Huangpu River.

Brenda yelled at Terrance this morning. Terrance didn't know why he was being yelled at. Brenda didn't know why she was upset with her husband. She yelled at him some more. The wedding of their ignorance birthed an argument.

Brenda met her best friend for a protracted coffee date. Her friend asked her why she had yelled at Terrance. Brenda said she didn't know. Her friend pressed her. Brenda made up an answer for her friends' sake. Her friend smiled and changed the subject.

Terrance left for work still unsure of the crux of their argument. He got on the freeway. There was traffic. A van behind him honked. It honked again. Terrance honked back. He was late for work.

Terrance strolled into his cubicle. His boss was waiting. His boss said he'd been acting differently. Terrance said he hadn't realized it. His boss looked unhappy. Terrance asked what he could do to change. His boss said he didn't know. The boss' secretary buzzed him, and Terrance was left alone.

Brenda stopped by the cliffs on her way home. She considered throwing herself off. She didn't know why. The tide was crashing against the rocks. She liked watching the barnacles weather the implacable surf's hammering. She got back in the car and drove home.

Brenda cut vegetables on the counter that night, waiting for Terrance. He was late. She rinsed the vegetables and put them in the refrigerator. Her favorite show was on. The main character was a female police officer immune to men. She repelled their advances with wit and taekwando. The show finished. Brenda felt more sure of herself.

Terrance came home late. Brenda was asleep on the couch. Terrance smelled of whiskey. Brenda woke when he shut the door. Terrance didn't notice her. Brenda peeked her head above the cushions. Terrance was having trouble removing his jacket. Brenda didn't want to get into a row. Terrance had been drinking. Brenda scooted upstairs when he hung up his coat. Terrance climbed into bed fully clothed. Brenda was snoring loudly. Terrance was too exhausted to care.