Went to the Akron Art Museum for a reading by given by some poets. Their work was multi-faceted and evocative, and made me at some point think about some of my long-held beliefs about my place in the world. One of the poets, for instance, talked about how the piece of art made him feel, an attitude that in my younger days would have caused me to smirk and cringe and think ‘how self-indulgent!’ I’m sure a snort would have shown up as well.
Now, though, I believe that that sort of approach is actually probably more humble than talking about the work of art. It’s absolutely more honest, as the way we react, hear, or otherwise absorb the text or artifact in question. It’s arrogant to think that we can change it, somehow, magically, by talking about it – we can only act upon, treat it for what it’s worth, fuck with it in all the proper ways.
Language brings the heat.