Anders Zorn: Pilot (1919)

"Nobody ever was or ever will be an island …"

I claim to carry on an iAlogue, an internal dialogue for the purpose of navigation, but I might misrepresent the actual mechanism. I do carry on an iAlogue once inspiration visits, but inspiration visits silently, like that proverbial thief in the night, like Santa Claus, like nothing at all. However I might seek direction, it seems to take its own sweet time to come, for it owns that seeking time. The harder I strive, the longer I wait, or so it so often seems. The notion I seek doesn't speak to me so much as to tap me on my virtual shoulder to gain my attention. Once my attention focuses, the inspiration's passed and my benefactor returns to his natural state, which seems both silent and invisible. He surfaces relatively rarely even if usually daily, for the instant he appears measures in sub-seconds before he disappears again.

I speak of him as 'him,' but only for convenience. He has no form or substance, and I would claim he doesn't exist if I were more rational. I could claim credit for my ideas, for my trajectories, for there wouldn't be anybody to contest my claims. No fingerprints on the murder weapon, as the detective would note. No footnote citing any recognized authority. I can honestly say that these things—though I cannot claim these are things, either—invisibly find, inform, and guide me. My iAlogues occur before and after. Before, as I wondered where I might find inspiration this time when I feel as though I should have learned but never did learn how to inspire myself; and then After, once the seed of inspiration settles and starts germinating, for many fine-tuning decisions seem to be needed then.

The fact that I stand before you now seems proof enough of the existence of this power, this influence. Nobody could have been so brilliant and so stupid in that unique mix that manifested my path, my story, and my current presence. Nobody could have foreseen so skillfully the consequences of my many decisions to mindfully guide me to this destination, even though this destination, like each one before this one, will later very likely prove itself to have been a waystation. As near as my experience can determine, there are no destinations here, only waypoints. The notion that one must find and hold a vision seems an utterly alien concept to this veteran of innumerable campaigns. I can hold helpful notions without ever once grasping a magnificent obsession. I have never once started with any particular ending in mind because I do not believe or hold my faith in endings. It never was the destination for me, but the excursion instead.

What have I accomplished? Not much, I might well insist. I perform like random atoms playing off each other. I move as some spirit nudges me. I have no bucket list because I figure I'll experience my fair share without burdening myself with insistences. I move in general directions, guided by some mother or father of inspiration. Later, some pattern emerges from what began as a few mute energy surges. I will own the fact that it was me interpreting those and I who chose to respond however I did. I will not claim to have come up with the ideas, though, because I know better and suspect the punishment's severe for those violating the underlying covenant. Anyone can get pretty much anything they want, just as long as they insist upon not taking credit for it. If the gods of inspiration are anything, I suspect they are jealous. While they never insist upon receiving credit, they seem to deeply resent anyone claiming they did it alone without help. Nobody ever was or will be an island, and everyone seems guided by some SilentPilot. This seems to unify us as somehow sacred.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #iAlogue , #PureSchmaltz