The Emily Dickinson Productivity Secret

'Tis true.

Mayhap by mine own misappropriated sensibilities
may I be hoist 'pon the morrow's rack by the verilies.

(think that's King Lear btw)

But you raise a valid point, so I will depart from my customary vernacular to speak briefly of what has come to be known as "the visible soul", in theatrical circles at least.

So much performance deals with artifice.

The actress assumes a role, and her pretence convinces the audience to become complicit in her illusion.

For a moment, the facade becomes real, and the make up assumes a texture one could kiss as if it were truly flesh.

Such is the magic of artifice.

But there is another more potent force, one more eternal than mere stage sets and make up and costumes.

This is the "visible soul" -- and all great actresses esteem it worthier than mere pretence.

Beyond artifice, the actress is visible in spite of the role she plays.

We are captivated by her because she reveals the vulnerability of her own human heart.

It is raw and tiny and fragile, and the stage's illusory trappings serve to amplify its every nuance rather than cast a shroud upon it.

In this amplification, it is rendered invisible until the audience sees only the actress.

The nakedness of her soul touches on all shades of emotion the audience knows to be true, like some material conduit existed between them for the verbatim transmission of humanity's deepest secrets.

Soft as a kiss, hard as a punch, it is authentic, instantaneous, uplifting.

By this means, she transforms intention into a truly potent force.

I guess that's why the Mind Warriors have their own space here.

To answer the question: what is the potent force I possess that will spare me the agony of strutting and fretting my hour upon the stage only to remain forever unheard, even to myself?

(I'm paraphrasing the bard here, but I hope you get the point.)

For me, the current Mind Warrior interpretation of the best way to tread the boards involves rather more stage paint, costumes and arm waving than I believe is necessary or productive.

But that is just me speaking.

On which note, nothing Balestra is likely to be forgotten or ommitted whenever I commit words to air.

Should that moment come, maybe some small part of the world will tumble into a me-shaped hole, there to linger momentarily before walking on.

*

Formal mutation over, gonna slap some more Emily Dickinson where I can feel it...

This is srsly weird.

Right now, it don't matter where we are, or where we end up.

We are linked in a chain by numerous gymnastic dangles, all on the flipside of a lofty silence.

To be frank, this post started out from a desire on my part to spank my own ass with a book of poems, which in turn started out with a moment of frivolity in the Off Topic subforum, which in turn started out thanks to some spammer hittin' on WF with his (swiftly pulled) link to a 'network' of spankin' websites.

The mods pulled the link in a blink, but its brief life is not without consequence, because now we roped in Dickinson and Frost from outta the spanko wilderness between us, an' a new life form lurches into momentary view.

Mebbe I am the worst kind of juvenile imbecile but this excites me beyond all measure.

I believe life's generative dangliture to be a gift unfoldin' before us.

Hey — I'd facepalm, but I dunno which part of my shapeshiftin' physiognomy is my face, let alone my palm.

But ur right about regurgitation.

Regurgitation is never the answer because even a King's banquet don't taste as good 2nd time around.