2020…. what a concept

If life were a novel, the last day of the year would be the scene where the final bloodbath or the final kiss under a moonlit night would happen. Alas, life is not a novel.

Today marks the end of a decade. Yes, 2020 felt like a decade. I mean, who would have thought there’d be something like rapidly greying hair? And I wouldn’t dare to see the speed with which the streaming servers ran, this year. Over here, I’ve binge-watched and concluded at least 20 shows. Maybe more.

Today is one of the few links between Sir Anthony Hopkins and this mere jester that is I, for it is our common birthday. The others include a love for classical music (you should listen to his legendary waltz. It’s a gem!). I can’t speak for the titanic actor, but I’ve always felt an odd link with this day. I’ve never had the chance to do a yearly recap, because nothing significant happened during the year. Either that or most of my birthdays were spent with people whom I adore and whom I had seen every day before.

Yet, this year’s celebration is a gut punch. Many families will have one less hug to exchange, one less joke to which they can react to, one last inside bond based on situational comedy. 2020 may be a horrible ass for many (annus horribilis, as they would say in Rome), but it also reinforces the idea that life – while not beautiful – is a fickle flame that dances in the wind of eternity.

2020….. what a concept. (Sorry, Mr. Williams.)

The Creativity paradox

During my years in social media spheres (10 and counting), I’ve interacted with a lot of creatives, in various fields and sub-fields. This brought a few things to mind, especially during these dire times. The question of the importance of the arts during a moment where every penny counts is one of the reasons why I’ve had that short reflection on the creativity paradox. We create, but to obtain what goal? For what purpose? Becoming famous or rich? Having our voices heard? I think the number of answers is linked to the number of creatives, on this dying planet.

During my time on social media, I’ve had the pleasure (the displeasure?) of seeing the same lines used to quote one of my creative mentors, Mr. Leonard Cohen. You all know the one. The one about the crack in everything. Well, I think another quote by the grocer of despair is far more fitting.

“If I knew where good songs came from, I’d go there more often.”

While the crack in everything (from the poem/song “Anthem”) is in and of itself a good quote, its overuse over the years may have edulcorated its strength, in my humble opinion. I may be wrong and will accept humbly any counter-argument, in this case. I nonetheless think that the aforementioned quote illustrates the creativity paradox well. A playwright could say that they’d go where good plays came from, as would a ceramist.

Still, what is good? How can we define it, without referring to the dictionary? Would Chopin’s Polonaise or Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue be seen as good by people who aren’t fans of classical music? Would the most recent rap songs be enjoyed by aficionados of Baroque concertos?

This should be a rhetorical question.

Happiness….. what a concept.

This time of year is usually a time where we all get swallowed by the entrails of consumerism – also known as shopping centres – and hope to find the answer to one of the thorniest questions humanity has faced: “what the fakakta should I buy for my mother-in-law?!”. This time of year is also what I would call a real-life Groundhog Day…. sans groundhog. Think of the retailers who have to face the growing impatience of entitled bastards, the thundering voice of one not-that-virgin (I suspect) Mariah who wants you for Christmas. Who or what is you is beyond me. They deserve our applause.

This introduction was meant to distract you from the topic of this post. When you think about it, happiness truly is a concept. The thing is that I don’t think there’s only one definition of happiness. A psychopath is happy when they’re killing and when a detective’s hunting them. My mother-in-law (God bless her!) is happy when she sees my face in the obits. And same, for me. Yet, in a more serious note, happiness is something I’ve never understood. All these years, I’ve made people laugh, but I sometimes wasn’t laughing myself. I hid behind the clown, because I’ve felt in my mind that people needed laughter, now more than ever. “Ridi del duol, che t’avvelena il cor!” (Laugh of the pain that poisons your heart, as Pagliaccio the clown sang in Pagliacci.

I became fueled by that need to make others laugh. It became my own private addiction. I won’t go into years of therapy – you and I may end up bored by that – but it’s no secret that I could count the number of true friends I’ve had on one section of one finger. Yes, you’ve read that right. At Seventeen was my unofficial autobiography. Sadly, I can’t cheat at Solitaire. I can cheat on my diet, with cookies. Given the number of cookies at any given time in my stomach, I’m surprised it’s not a website.

So, in conclusion to this post, I will think about what I’ll do with the clown. It could be a thespian death or simply a part-time thing I’ll use to make the ladies laugh.