There’s a quote from Arthur Miller’s The Crucible that goes: “Until an hour before the devil fell, God found him beautiful in heaven.” I’ve been letting the weight of these words plummet through my increasingly distracted, seemingly gravity-deprived brain these past few days, hoping for a thought strong enough to puncture; a mental ricochet. I’m not sure why this line resonated with me, but I think it’s easily applicable to most humans, surreptitious and self-serving as we often tend to be. We know from classic literature that Lucifer was said to have fallen because of his dissatisfaction with God’s absolute control . To read the quote, we might come to understand that the devil had the ability, as it were, to manipulate the figurative wool over God’s apparently omniscient eyes. However, we might also read the line differently; perhaps God’s vision, as all-encompassing as it is thought to be, was selective. Perhaps God refused to see his shining angel as anything but good and filled with redeeming qualities. Every action, however inelegant, might be perceived as graceful by one whose mind is set in admiration, which makes the rebel’s longing for power, for individualism, all the more urgent; Lucifer had to prove his oppressor wrong, even if it meant his own ultimate destruction. Regardless of the verity of the story, it is unfortunate that Man (as literary inspiration for Lucifer or vice versa) has been following suit ever since.

Humans, in my opinion, are contrary by nature. Whether out of antagonism, hostility, or mere circumstance, the need to argue one’s point; to forge out on one’s own, seems inherent--perhaps because we are intrinsically riddled with imperfection, and feel the need to point it out. That said, imperfection, of course, is subject to criticism, which, if ill-received and un-acted upon by those in power, may lead to the stronger, grimmer consequence of opposition, a route often traveled alone.

Individualism, I’ve learned, however, sometimes comes at a price: isolation, self-delusion, and a general animosity towards the greater, more intact whole. The issue of interest, however, is just what constitutes the “whole.”

I’ve often said that I subscribe to the metaphysical poets’ belief of Man as part of a greater macro/microcosmic system. This means that everything in the universe-- man’s concept of the ‘whole’-- can serve as a metaphor for something greater or lesser than it. For instance, one might consider their version of God to be the universal absolute; the sovereign force for the universe. However, as far removed, physically and emotionally, as most are from their ultimate creators, for me, a certain inward movement of the fundamental has proven necessary for basic daily function and sanity.

Like a telescope, worth collapses upon itself; our solar system replaces the vast unknown, and Earth replaces it in turn. We find the lowest common denominator in fractions, and likewise, the value of our planet is delegated to our respective countries, and the hold becomes tighter as it moves into our cities and towns. Moving ever closer, a seemingly simple family unit can serve as one’s concept of the universe; the creators and sustainers and the wards all living together in a sort of disjunctive bubble. And, ultimately, though one might sharpen the lens’ focus a thousand-fold more, a solitary being can serve as a microcosm for the whole; Creator, Sustainer, and Destroyer; Id, Ego, Superego; housed together in one’s body, each struggling to make itself heard; to see who can scream the loudest. We are our own Gods, subject to our own criticisms.

Opposing forces work within me, treading a very fine, often shaky balance; the struggle for power flickers from hand to hand with the bat of an eyelash. In this way, it is possible to become my own oppressor as well as my own defender. I will not rail to imaginary heavens, nor will I scream at untouchable figureheads in a desire for deliverance from unarticulated mysteries. I can neither scream to those who will not hear. Thus, having nothing more tangible than myself to oppose and admonish, my body begins to wage war with my mind, belligerent totality that I am.

My mind is both strong and weak. It knows what is right, but is compelled through force of habit to fall into trenches. My unarmored body has held out against my mind for a very long time and has been surprisingly regenerative. But at the same time, my body has at times proven itself uncooperative. Guilt, desire, regret, repetition, hatred, and disgust have been the artillery of choice for my mind; Smart weapons, these arrows, which never miss their target. My body, aching, grumbling, cracking, rotting thing that it is, may not hold out forever. Sleep is the best respite, although silencing my mind’s crueler aspects through this method, is (and has always been) difficult; More opposition.

Sometimes, my body rebels and rejects me, and mentally, I can do nothing. I may inhale, and somewhere, beneath the surface of my collarbone, cutlery drawers may slam, clattering silverware about my lungs. On one of the warmest nights this summer, I was unable to stop shivering into my comforter for a full two hours. The fever, a result of what I was later, with the help of a doctor (who offered me a pen as a consolation/consultation prize) and a translator, able to pinpoint as an upper respiratory infection, had left me frantic and morbid. I assumed, naturally, that my death was imminent. I was afraid to sleep. Exhausted, my head would reel directly into my pillow and rest there only about 3 seconds before I’d pry myself upward. I recall repeating what I supposed was an act of mutual self-destruction/preservation at least 4 times more until finally, the cough wracking my rib cage caused a physical revolt in me, ill-conducive to sleep, should I accept it or not. I wondered if this illness, like everything else that affects me, was my fault. I felt guilt for something that was probably airborne. I fell asleep that awful night, in terror, wondering, and trying to keep the nausea at bay.

I survived, obviously, but this bout of illness has been very affecting. I obviously think of death too often in the first place, and once more, I’ve been stricken with thoughts that life is dashing by too quickly, like the hours have abandoned me to habit and routine. I know that my professional life and my personal life should be kept away from one another, and right now, I am satisfied with work. I tell myself, though, that I will make time to write; to draw; to create. The days have, however, found a way to speed themselves up, it would seem, coursing through the atmosphere, as surreptitious, but as affecting as the oxygen we have no choice but to consume; the viruses we are unable to keep from catching. The idea that time is being wasted in all that I do, is like a disease. My mind becomes flushed, overwhelmed to the point where I can do very little at all. Indeed, the hours in my life have been wasted quite edaciously, and my regret grumbles away, like a bad case of indigestion.

Perhaps my desire to create of late is a reflection of my yen to be a shaper, a sustainer, rather than the alternative, buoyed ironically along by that negative force which has so pervaded my life, and which I can sometimes feel taking hold of me, as it siphons away what remains of former versions of me. I’ve criticized myself to the point where this is the only solution I can conceive of; to divest myself of as much of myself as I might, and start again, to recreate myself, and lose myself in a world of pictures and words that twist perfectly together; a double helix connecting two streams—blood and thought.

I sometimes think for long stretches at a time, about how words mesh together, and how they would sound together issued from a mouth that manages to be familiar, yet strangely foreign. And yet, all my imagined monologues remain unborn, another act of creation gone unrealized. Someone once asked me what the difference was between being creative, and being a creator, and of course, I had to answer that the latter suggested an originator, a God, whereas the former merely described the qualities possessed by one. So, if we are all symbolically microcosmic versions of something unknowable, something divine, then, however blasphemous or oppositional it may seem, we are all capable of embodying either condition, or both at once.

I am reminded of Greek Mythology’s Pygmalion, the hermit artist who felt nothing but disgust and resentment for human women in all their imperfection. He rejected them by remaining cloistered in his house, and concentrating on his work. This denial of women, generally accepted as one of Gods’ gifts to Man, creatures conceived by the seminal mind of the ultimate artist, may be perceived as arrogant, or critical, perhaps; Pygmalion’s being too proud to accept something he felt could be improved upon. One day, at a temple, he came across an image of Aphrodite and immediately fell in love with the divinity. Though he realized he could never possess the being after whom the image was modeled, the artist in him became obsessed with this vision of feminine beauty, so undetectable among mortal women.

Infatuated, he disregarded thoughts of sacrilege, and thought not of those boundaries over which man is assumed unable to tread. He became a Creator, and from some clay—dug from the earth—he sculpted the only wife he would ever deign to take, perfecting her to his whims, basing her on the Goddess at the temple. When she was finished, she was perfect, and he called her ‘wife,’ as though she were a sentient being, and not a cold, inanimate piece of clay. Essentially, the artist’s inability to cede to a pedestrian human life of ugliness and imperfection symbolizes man’s drive to become better, and not accept what is offered to him blindly, and without question. The story suggests we must make use of our own faculties and take risks for happiness.

The story has a surprisingly happy ending. Pygmalion loves his creation so much, that his prayers to Aphrodite are answered, and his chosen wife is transformed into a living creature. I think the point of the story is that given what we know of vengeful, easily insulted Gods who don’t accept opposition well, Pygmalion was prepared, essentially, to surrender his own life for something he desired; to become as lifeless as his mate. In effect, the artist was willing to sacrifice himself for something he already knew was unattainable; if he couldn’t achieve perfection is his world, he’d rather not exist.

The artist assumes the role of creator, then, in some sort of microcosmic twist to the story. The two governing forces in his life—his oppositional, creative mind, and the feminine body that engrossed him—were able to form a union of sorts, double-helix like, which completed him. The problem is that going through life with a significant part missing, tortured Pygmalion beyond measure. The fact that he created his wife and he had to watch her, unmoving and un-breathing, day after day, made it worse. Thus, the creation of his wife was merely a beautiful solution to his initial problem (not loving any of the human women), and it seems that it was the ‘solution’ that nearly destroyed him in the end, hungry passion and all. Self-appointed Creators create their own problems too, I suppose. From the Gods’ perspective, perhaps that is punishment enough.

My own aversion and acceptance lies dull and thickly; like spackle sparkling with glinting pieces of stone, the ratio is uneven. It makes me sad that human nature is very difficult to change. I am not feeling very God-like today.