“…When we process, we sort through all the raw material in the psyche, all the things we’ve learned, heard, longed for, and felt during a period of time. We use these processed ideas and energies to implement creative endeavors… The mill is not milling” (C.P. Estés)
And if I get up, and ignore the urge, where will it end up — up whose nerve endings will electric current run its creative course? I am greedy and do not want to share – what’s mine, this hardly legible pastiche of washed off colors in autumnal light, the twist of ankle down a crooked alley – or worse, the cracked white paint on double doors of Paul Celan’s birth house (the real unofficial one) — and what am I to do with it, with all these smuggled riches?
The rosy-cheeked students of Chernivtsi music school, in their lovingly ironed out shirts, surrounded by a moat of admiring and proud relatives, so full of nurtured talent, of fresh nerves, with all the zest that youth can muster on a Sunday morning, made a pretty spectacle for the Chernivtsi City Day.
Two days later, though, in perfumed, gilded, heavy velvet halls of the Regional Theater (built in 1905 to rival all the baroque in Vienna), I heard a different kind of music. A butcher for a violinist, affected préparations (yes, read French) strung out the already painful symphonic renditions of rock songs. It’s been a long time since I’ve been assaulted with such an obvious lack of talent, so much so, that ‘incompetence’, ‘talent-less-ness’ simply doesn’t cut it. It was pure unapologetic bezdarnost. Like bad wine, it enveloped you, grew on you, making a piece of you die with each new sip, stifling the first impulse to categorically walk out at the first flat chord. The red wine, too, they’d measure with a plastic cup and pour into champagne chutes.
I guess we should blame Bolsheviks.