How does the writer respond in the face of human tragedy such as with the recent Utah Mining Disaster? Or in the aftermath of the human devastation left by Hurricane Katrina? Memories of that fateful day of September 11th, 2001 still loom over us. What do we do? What can we as artists faithful to our purpose, our mission to create, in the face of pain and loss accomplish when the distance from the tragedies for some of us is no less influencing? How can we use this lack of close proximity that leaves many of us experiencing a disconnect to those hurting and affected by the tragedies, an in-conjuct, if you will, creating within us a repository of frustration demanding attention?
The word in-conjunct in astrology denotes a 150-degree angle between two planets. To novice astrologers this relationship between planets, an aspect, appears benign. Unlike the hard angle of the square openly displaying its challenges—two ideas, urges, colliding at 90 degrees, much like two vehicles approaching a stop light at a T-intersection, and neither choosing to stop—the in-conjunct, though holding 60 degrees more room for possible sway would seem to offset the sharpness of the meeting of the two ideas. In actuality experienced astrologers will tell you that the in-conjunct aspect between two planets is prone to sudden explosion, arising from the slow, but steady build-up of frustrations.
The in-conjunct aspect is ruled by the planet Uranus which is related to explosions, bombings, sudden releases of energy that when carefully explored have been mounting for some time. This is in no way saying that these disasters occurred due to the uranian activity of human emotions. But their occurrences do leave in their aftermath the strong possibility of accumulation of anger and despair leading to destructive behaviors if given no outlet for venting and emoting, and these outlets maintained over time.
I read once that the job of the writer is to say not only what others feel, more importantly to put in to words, voice, what the corpus of the human collective cannot. Likewise I believe that the job of the painter is to bring into creation images that express the deep longing of the collective to transcend what we normally see and think about life, and deliver us to the other side of not only understanding why we envision and contemplate as we do, but what it all means in the grand scope of things. Of course what the artist paints or says is not a solid immovable, static truth, rather one that evolves with time as another individual reads the author’s words, views the painter’s painting, hears the violinist’s sonata, invokes the poet’s poem with her or his voice.
How can we view tragic events in that they have happened despite our desires that they cease to occur? How can were perceive these painful events in a way that furthers our growth as humans who are also artists? What do they say to us that we as artists and humans must hear? How can we listen, and interpolate what we hear and attach meaning to these events and their aftermath—incidences that many deem as a senseless waste of life to which we can find no definition? And what does it mean when, and if we do?
Nothing.
And then all things.
Life is beautiful. It is also filled with tragedy of all sorts that has, and will darken the skies of many—ourselves included. Yet and still life exists and continues—ourselves included. And if we are to thrive as a human race—ourselves included—and as an individual in this collective of humankind, we must continue our work as writers, painters, musicians, poets. We must further our creations, take them to new levels that invigorate the spirit—ourselves included. This axiom is no less applicable when in the face of the human experience of the inexplicable—death and destruction—ourselves included.
Death and life are intermingled—in our lives and in the lives of others. Each time we finish a work, we die a little death. And each time we begin again, we open ourselves up to the possibility of resurrection, which inherently involves dying a little, once, more, and then again.
It is a circular path we trod. To face the blank page, the empty canvas, to pick up our instrument in the silence of the morning or night reminds us that one day we will not be here to participate in this process of creating. If we are to be prepared for a future of which we do not know we must create in the moment, and as we are now—ourselves included.