A favorite line, a favorite phrase, to start the week with.

“Often I Am Permitted To Return To A Meadow

as if it were a scene made-up by the mind,
that is not mine, but is a made place,

that is mine, it is so near to the heart,
an eternal pasture folded in all thought...”

- Robert Duncan, The Opening of the Field, © 1960

This poem is a poem I often return to. For reasons perhaps not what the great poet intended. Or perhaps they are. It speaks to me, however, as a creed about art, creation, and creativity.

It is as if there is a place where we can go to find our voice, our meaning, our myths, and our art. It is, however, not wholly our own. We are permitted to find our voice, and we are permitted to make our meanings. But this is a sacred place, a place where we can't go whenever we want. Perhaps this is writer's block, but this meaning I attach to it is itself the mythology we can make of small things. And in this way, become connected to something greater.

It is, of course, a made place. Does that mean it is not natural? Or is nature made, too? Either way, it is part of eternity, “an eternal pasture folded in all thought”, our thought, our muses' thoughts, the thoughts of the field itself, perhaps, the ground of being.

It is ours, it is dear to us. It underlies everything. I use language to make it mine, to show it, to fold it in thought – all thought – which means it becomes part of other's thought as well. They have the final act of creation, of linking it to their own experience and interpretation. The reader, given permission by the author putting out this section of the field, now is part of the field. The field is much greater, of course. We explore it bit by bit, poem by poem, story by story. We then fold ourselves into the greater part of the world.

A great poem to come back to, when time permits, when need arises. It is eternally there for us.

  "Literature is a luxury; fiction is a necessity" (G. K. Chesterton).

As one who writes fiction and not literature (at least, yet – one can hope, right?), this statement has often intrigued me. Forgetting for the moment what distinguishes literature from fiction, what would make one a necessity and not the other? Or one a necessity at all?

The necessity means we need it to get through life. Now, one could get through life I suppose by simply tending to a food source, their shelter, and their health. However, for most, simply doing that requires a fiction or two. A fiction of why the seasons change in a way that helps or hurts me. A fiction of why someone gets to rule over me...whether as king in most details of my life, or for 8 hours out of every day. A fiction on why some girl does or doesn't like me. A fiction on why I don't have luxury.

The fictions help us explain our life at a level that allows our mind to “be okay”, to make sense of things without going crazy, to put a small meaning onto things. It helps us to remember. But the things may or may not be lasting meaning in and of themselves. Life without meaning is harsh. At a minimum, fiction entertains as a story around the campfire to draw us together, with one another around the campfire, or with others around their campfires in the past and in other places. They tell us our story. They hint at the grand, even though they may not take us there in full color and detail.

Literature, the really good stuff, however, is a luxury. It does “taje us there” in full color and detail and rises higher. A grand story that tells of grand events, grand people, grand concepts. Siddhartha is a story within literature that while it may help us with dealing with a social class we find ourselves in, is also a story that teaches us of seeking, of harmony, of finding truth. Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man teaches us of how we develop and grow. Lord of the Rings teaches us about what the small person in each of us can do to change the world and of free will. In some ways, these are a luxury. They are universal and fundamental. They are completely engaging, life-changing, ...but they don't always help us make sense of the little disconnected events that start and stop on one or two days. So sometimes, fiction is necessary, but literature is a luxury. And, of course, literature has to be “good” - constructed well, as an art – and that is a luxury, although it is no excuse for fiction not to aspire to be good.

Also, of course, while fiction is “made-up”, it does not mean that the story and the lessons are false. It is the truths found within the made-up that make them necessary and a luxury.

I recently passed 100,000 “reads” on Scribd. A small, meaningless milestone. To celebrate, I wrote a memoir that is certainly a fiction, with one of my fictional characters (Jack) and my dog (Dog), who can talk in my fiction. In such a way I was able to explore the event for myself, and place it within the context I find myself in...doing yard work, working a real job, having a family and friends, etc. Perhaps others have small milestones that they reach which wouldn't mean anything to others but we should not always be so literal in assuming that.

Anyways, for all you know, Jack might exist, and my dog might really talk in some important way, if we only listened correctly. It is the mystery of not really knowing life that allow us to draw upon the corners and just-out-of-peripheral-vision odd happenings in order to make a story, and have it be believable while we read it. Doing so may help us explain and entertain and connect. Not doing it would have allowed another black hole to form in our collective memory.

If you get a chance, I hope you will enjoy the 'memoir', and leave a comment!