The Porta-potty Artist

One article a month, it’s hardly anything at all. That’s what I typically produce. But, I’ve recently started writing in the early mornings. Because, well, it actually works… You rise, up out of bed, no matter the weather, and you turn on the tunes, and maybe you pour a cup of coffee (preferably with some cocoa added in there). And, you start writing. So, you’re already pouring some value out there into the v a s t digital space (or, would you prefer that I use the term: the cloud? But, you know what it really is, it's a giant warehouse — the size of a football field — on the outskirts of a city near you; housing tens of thousands of servers, all wired together; with cooling units too, for these same servers), and into the minds of your fellow subscribers, first thing in the morning. You’re up, and about and being productive — whilst most everyone else is asleep. Such a consistent routine, over the very long haul, becomes, rather befitting of some of the greats.

As a writer, I wouldn’t go so far as to compare myself with the likes of Chopin, per se (I dare not), striking away at the keys of a piano to produce a musical melody of poetry. But, as a writer you are still striking keys, nonetheless, to bring words together into a rhythm of a sort, which produces sounds.

All this sort of reminds me of the catchy intro to the song, ‘Right Now’ by Van Halen. The man was a legend, like Chopin, and we all miss him now. Go ahead and watch a video (try, youtube) of how certain notes in the song are accented… much the same way you’d accent words so that they sound a bit different when you’re reading them on the screen. And, if I’ve done it correctly, you’ve just read these italicized words in your head a bit differently; perhaps even as though I were whispering them to you. Well, THAT… that was the point. YET (believe it or not), Van Halen was never taught to read music. He watched recitals, and … i m p r o v i s e d. It’s all fascinating, right? But, for some, it might be just too many rainbows and unicorns...

You see, this is my 40th article; and whilst it may be a milestone to some, I often question myself, as to what it is that I’ve actually ‘created’ thus far. Yet, I didn’t think I had much to say at all when I got started on this platform. Truthfully, I doubted whether I could produce a mere ten articles for this particular pseudonym. But here I am, punching away on the keyboard, and quadrupling my original writing estimation; often to my own astonishment. I kid you not. However, whilst this is all well and good, I’ve tried to guide my artistic writing quest (to an extent, more or less) by the whispering voice of the despicable ‘second-hander’ from the world of Ayn Rand. Here’s an excerpt that clarifies what I’m talking about.

“Yes! And isn’t that the root of every despicable action? Not selfishness, but precisely the absence of self. Look at them. The man who cheats and lies, but preserves a respectable front. He knows himself to be dishonest, but others think he’s honest and he drives his self-respect from that, second-hand. The man who takes credit for an achievement that is not his own. He knows himself to be mediocre, but he’s great in the eyes of others. The frustrated wretch who professes love for the inferior and clings to those less endowed, in order to establish his own superiority by comparison. The man whose sole aim is to make money. Now I don’t see anything evil in a desire to make money. But money is only a means to an end. If a man wants it for personal purpose — to invest in his industry, to create, to study, to travel, to enjoy luxury — he’s completely moral. But the men who place money first go much beyond that. Personal luxury is a limited endeavour. What they want is ostentation: to show, to stun, to entertain, to impress others. They’re second-handers.” - The Fountainhead.

So, I ask this of my viewers: can there possibly be anything worse than to be called a second-hander? That's it, isn't it? The most loathsome commentary you can possibly receive. Like the Artful Dodger from Oliver Twist, how often can I say, that I’ve created something unique, original, and entirely void from the assiduous hand that is in the pocket of someone else ... the pocket of their ideas? Well, not often. I suppose we all go out and ‘borrow’ water from the communal well… somewhere out there. Here a reference, there a reference, everywhere, a reference, reference. True, though, if you have nothing entirely original you can always just add to what others have written. The next great American novel won't be written overnight, I'm afraid. But, I’m working on it. I’ve gone and done some excavation work, and some of the foundations have even gone up. The brickwork is next. And, I’ll add in the fluff, afterwards; but don’t go and forget the thunderboxes.

I know what you're thinking, you can’t write about those, it’s despicable; even among the builder’s circle; for though they raise the structure from the depths of the permafrost to the tallest spire, and dangle like fodder from the very cranes used to erect the cubicle (which, you’re probably reading this from), yet, a single functional loo for them to use, is, out of the question. Not for you, you dirty little hard-hat-wielding brute. Off you go, into your little portable, where your privates are to be subjected to the most assailant of temperatures ever conceived by man. So, whilst you’re in there (properly peeved at this point, no doubt), you create… yes, you create — ‘masterpieces’ within the inner walls of the very thunderbox you’re being subjugated with, like the Mona Lisa in the Louvre.

Yes, I know one should never dream of putting a porta-potty and the Mona Lisa within the same context, or sentence, but, neither would John Galt. And yet, John Galt was a key figure, a master piece, in his own right. It’s a magic moment, where you drop a deuce too. 'Right here and now. It means e v e r y thing.' Van Halen would have to agree, no? So, if you borrow words, you must give back; that’s part and parcel. You can’t hoard all that knowledge (from consuming vast amounts of material), and NOT share any of it. You’ll likely forget most of it anyway, so why not share what you’ve been mussing over? You’ve got to wring out some of the content you’ve been absorbing and... give back. And somehow you keep going and going, and you can call it whatever you wish; talent or divine deliverance. You keep writing. You fall back on it, as a pastime.

In this way, whether despicable or humorous, I leave you now with nothing short of the wisdom from Don Quixote:

“Men renowned for their genius — great poets, illustrious historians — are usually envied by those whose pleasure and pastime is to pass judgment on what others have written, without ever having published anything themselves.”

“.. so you see anyone publishing a book exposes himself to enormous risk, because it’s absolutely impossible to write one in such a way that it satisfies and pleases all who read it.”

"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? TURN THIS THING AROUND, RIGHT NOW...."