prose and cons

Of all the artistic languages, I'm really only fluent in prose.

Small bits of poetry, art and music have slipped through the cracks, of course. There's some music that I adore, for example. I love a good singer-songwriter-folksy-acoustic-guitar album, or one of Bach's cello suites. But Music on the grander scale-- music with Theory and History and Composers and Key Signatures, that stuff doesn't really interest me much at all. Bring me to a symphony or an opera or an organ concert and I immediately start casing the escape routes. I just don't have the right appreciation equipment.

Art is the same way-- occasionally something will move me, but generally visual stuff doesn't penetrate me on an emotional level at all. I miss the insight into the artist's deep soul when I look at a Picasso or a Rembrandt or a Warhol. I can say "wow, this is famous, so it must be good," or recognize a cubist style here and pointilism there, but it means little to me at the end of the day.

There are but a few poems that have wormed their way into my stony heart. Notable exceptions include this poem by e.e. cummings, this one by Gerard Manley Hopkins, and a couple others. But really, there are only a few. Most poetry is only so much gobbletygook to me.

But prose, now that's my bread and butter. Words and phrases and sentences-- obedient to the rules of grammar but infinite in application and connotation. For me, it's really only words that express truths (and sometimes also facts). That's the way to my heart. I could live without art, and certainly without poetry. I'd suffer a bit without music, but I could do it.

But don't you dare take away my books.