Friday, November 26, 2010

What "The Secret" and "The Power" Do Not Tell You

These two books are undoubtedly successful, minimum for both is above 20 million copies sold... however, I would like to comment:
A frustrating tendency of business shakers and movers responsible for entertainment, performing acts to be exact, is their deliberateness to support policies that are no more original and innovative than the stereotype they embody.

It is their damning chase to box office glamor splashed on TV news and newspapers emboldened by their zealots tragically lured to the improbable balance of business before art. It doesn't retreat.

These self-defeating ideals are the crutches for their platform to building the fortress walls ever higher from the serfs, the broadening majority of new talent with fresh perception and teetering lower-to-middle income lifestyles.

In order for the sensibility of this widening chasm, consider the tens of thousands of artists whom have scrapped their dream because it was not in their control, their direct, proactive ability, to pursue.

Most can, and will, disregard this sentiment as neatly as some homogenized cynical artist who couldn't accept their delusions as non-entertaining: the artist's misguided mission kept in Fantasy-land.

The only thing that keeps this caste of freedom fighters from spiraling into defeat is the vast legions that have art or humanities on their brain every waking minute, every waking day... But the metastasizing presence of altering their craft for the more acceptable formula is a true concern. Either dumb down, dilute, underscore, disclaim, or deny their ersatz motivations so they can eat or even buy a bar of a soap.

If we haven't lost our way yet, where do we get our compass to reorient ourselves so the cornerstone of importance is to cultivate the throngs of dreamers in this chronic, dishelved class system of bottom-feeders, I mean, bottom-liners.

Get aggravated and piqued - let the sanguine blood flow through your categorically, monochromatic bodies. Or die bitter and gnarled. Creativity and innovation is my blood; disgust for the current affairs is my excrement.

Let's move to a composite picture with foreboding entrance to a cemetery in the encroaching background:
A girl grows up in a little suburban town insulated from the daily turmoil of inner-city happenings, tickings; a clear chaos of non-power and non-influence. As the girl moves to adolescence, her mind outgrows the provincial boundaries. So to a city she abounds: where other people are available to share her passions and aspirations, cultivating these seeds for something amazing.

But, problems grow as her life increases to the aforementioned, and indirect yet they are, a splintering from this social nest emerges into a new orientation of the dream, a dream. She doesn't forget her first enclave so she returns ready to share, tweek, reinvent. For she learns creativity is not an island of positive thinking but a shared collaboration. It happens when similar minds bounce their varying mentality into a heterogeneous compound: flexible and intense, trust in social tendencies, a hub with no clan or kinship prerequisite.

The epilogue: Lost amidst the chronic finances left by underemployment, resources and training. Give me a sledgehammer & I'll be content.