Well, it’s been another fallow week. What can I say? Well, how about this oldie—a baldfaced imitation of the inimitable Russell Edson. Reading it in my three-ring binder from 1975, I recognize . . . well, this past week:
A Short History of Existential Medicine
The corpse was having an enema.Of course, this won’t do any good, said the doctor.
Why not? cried the corpse.
My good man, you are already dead, explained the doctor.Isn’t there a pill I could take for my condition? shouted the corpse.
Nothing would help, the doctor replied.
Then give me nothing! shrieked the corpse.So the doctor gave him nothing.
Why not? thought the doctor with a shrug. It couldn’t hurt.
Some poets advocate imitation as a way of learning the art. This forces me to doubt the value of that approach.
I like (& can relate to) that sense of "being adrift". A day doesn't go by when I don't feel like I'm wasting my time.<br /><br />But then significant writers (& writings) always had to break courageously through the chronic uncertainty and sometimes the self-loathing that goes with it: and birth new worlds.<br /><br />And they god they did!
I think that's what the issue is for me: wasting time. Oh, I wasted a bunch of it (my old notebooks demonstrate that), but in the end—are we there yet?—I don't regret it. Not really. I was always adrift, more or less, and still am….
Was it Picasso who told (or rather dared) his disciples to imitate him?<br /><br />I think his point was that it probably takes as much talent to 'imitate' as to create quality work. So why waste talent on imitation that will never be regarded as highly as the real thing?