to write, to read, and to listen

     Brilliant things pop into my head.  I could be anywhere when it happens, like a chance encounter with a flowerbed on the way to class.  Sometimes it happens while I lay in bed waiting for sleep to come.  It never comes slowly; it always blindsides me.  
     Most often, these brilliant things come while I'm in the shower or brushing my teeth.  It must be a comical sight for the Walls to see me pace my room for 15 minutes with my toothbrush in my mouth, my eyes and face moving in conversation with myself while the bristles continually move back and forth across my molars. 
     These brilliant things come without warning.  A clever phrase or a beautiful comparison or a vivid image.  They pop into my head and linger for just a moment.  
     And then they're gone.  
     This is a terrifying prospect for a Writer.  Me? I'm alright with it.  A little annoyed, but not devastated.  Which is one of the reasons I know I'm not a Writer.

     I hate soccer for many reasons.  The worst part is the ties.  You can tie.  In a global competition.  
     TIE!  
     "Congratulations on the effort everyone, and it's good to find out that effort is all that matters.  I know you thought this was a test of physical and tactical prowess, but in the end we've managed to prove that you are identical to the other team in all the categories that matter." 
     It's no wonder soccer is so popular here in Portland.  They've embraced a type of competition that can easily be undermined.  Why not teach kids that "superiority" is a made-up concept and that the word "better" is a poor metric for comparison?
     But aren't some things actually better than others?  In high school, I had a friend named Greg.  Greg was a genius.  Freshman year we lay on our backs in the Sullivan's backyard while he tried to explain to us in great detail how stars formed.  He had a mind for memory.  He remembered everything.  Better than I could, in fact.  His brain simply worked faster around numbers and physics and all manner of scientific theory.  
     Once, in a Mock Trial meeting at Claire's house, he tried to explain how frustrating school was.  He felt guilty, because he was in the top of the class and he didn't really try.  He claimed he was lazy.  He felt guilty watching his classmates slave over memorizing facts and equations that he remembered the first time he read them in the book. When it came to school, Greg was just better than me.
     There was a trade: Greg wasn't good at people.  He could read Stephen Hawking and understand him the first time, but Greg couldn't read a person at all.  Not quite on the spectrum, but socially unaware nonetheless.  And this was my strong suit.  While he shared his guilt with us during that Mock Trial meeting, I looked around the room and could tell the different things that each person was thinking.  But Greg was clueless.  When it came to people, I was simply better than Greg.  
     The point?  There are differences in the world, and they translate to aptitude.  The Portland attitude of "I'm different and you're different and that's all there is to it" is a good start but falls short.  We can't just call people different and leave it there.  Differences mean that skill-sets vary and therefore so does skill.  Greg was different than me, which meant that he was better than me at certain things. 

     I think that this concept is applicable to Writing.  I'm talking about real Writing.  Not just any shmuck with a blog (winkyface), but the person who understands the world at a deep level and is different enough to possess a skill-set that allows them to bring that depth alive for other people. Their words have a unique capacity to unlock a world of transcendence for the reader.  And some people are better at this than others. 
     At the same time some people stand up in front of a group and read so well that their voice rips you out of your world and into the one they're reading about.  The words or ideas might not be their own, but they are just better than other people at giving life to the words in the ears of another.  
     Yet again, some people hear or see beauty and commune with it on an intensely personal level.  This communion is experienced internally, and they aren't gifted with an extraordinary ability to communicate the beauty to others.  When beauty is experienced, they aren't obligated to capture the moment or enhance the experience; they simply receive it, and they can do so in a way that others simply cannot manage.  

     This is the most atomic division I have identified between people.  These categories are not set in stone, but they offer general trends that lead me to better understand them.
     Like when I watched the stars on the coast with my friend Renee.  In her head, words were buzzing around and she was putting together the most perfect way to give this experience to others.  A Writer. In my head, I heard a voice that narrated the scene.  I couldn't quite remember what the voice said when I tried to write it down, but two weeks later I read a poem about the stars to a friend and found that the experience added a layer of truth to my voice, allowing me to bring the poem alive for them.  A Reader.  

     A Writer is not simply better than a Reader.  A Writer is a better writer, and a Reader is a better reader.  Though the two have greater proficiency in particular areas, neither is more fully human than the other.  They are different, and these differences translate into aptitudes that serve humanity in different ways. 
     I am entirely comfortable being a Reader instead of a Writer or a Listener.  I know I'm not a Writer.  The voice I hear in the moment of transcendence is never my own, but always that of another Writer.  
     Furthermore, the things I write must be read in my own voice for them to have any meaning.  The Writer captures too much truth for this limitation.  Their words can be read in many different voices and still invoke transcendence.  

     To me these categories seem inescapable.  They are gifts distributed to humanity.  They are not just categories; they are vocations.  If a gift is given, a telos usually comes with it.  The Writer must write, and the Reader must read, and the Listener must listen. 

     I call myself a Curséd Poet.  I sometimes see the world with privileged eyes.  I know this.  
     Last night our host plucked a young magnolia blossom from his tree and passed it around the table.   Each person sniffed it once, then passed it on.  But it came to me and there it stayed.  I clutched the flower, stealing the scent into my nostrils every few seconds.  I took the flower home with me.  It's sitting on the desk right next me.  I couldn't let go, because every sniff sent me spinning out of the dining room and into a sun-kissed, overgrown meadow.  The smell laid me down under the shade of a magnificent tree there, in a place I'd never seen before.  I lay amongst the tall grass and the lazy summer flowers with a smile of peace on my lips and beneath my closed eyelids. 
     The Poet within me is very much alive, but he cannot speak.  He is cursed.  He hears the beautiful music without having a way of telling you about it in his own words.  I share the consternation of Prufrock.  I see my muses all the time; I hear them singing to me.  But they do not sing to me; they simply sing.  They don't give me my own words, but someone else's.  
     But I'm ok with that.