Quote on creativity

Image: Sign making by Ariana Sanjar

The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: a human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death.
Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create—so that without the creating of music or  poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him.
He must create, must pour out his creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency, he is not really alive unless he is creating.

~ Pearl S. Buck

Quote on creativity

Image: Sign making by Ariana Sanjar

The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: a human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death.
Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create—so that without the creating of music or  poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him.
He must create, must pour out his creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency, he is not really alive unless he is creating.

~ Pearl S. Buck

His God

Photo credit: lucasmalta from morguefile.com

After six days of diligent labour

he’d done it, he’d made his God.

He had a beer in the backyard to celebrate,

wiping the sweat from his brow,

looking up at the stars that he knew his God hadn’t made.

But that didn’t matter, his God was pretty much

about as perfect as he could make him.

Though there were disappointments.

His God spoke with a silly high pitched voice,

almost a falsetto,

instead of the rich, booming, shake ’em in their boots

voice he’d intended.

Also, his God was pretty slack in the miracles department.

He never really got around to actually doing anything.

And there were still wars and pestilence and plagues.

But then again, they seemed to happen

no matter whose God was pulling the reins.

He was a trifle clumsy, and if people gazed upon him at the supermarket

they tended to stare rudely, not fall down prostrate with awe.

They stared as if someone had just trudged in dog’s mess.

His God could be a bit crass at times,

an embarrassment in front of the opposite sex,

burping, boasting, cracking sick jokes,

gawking at bums and breasts.

He had his good side though.

He didn’t put black clouds of conscience in the man’s head.

His idea of hell was a barbecue ruined by rain.

He was nice to have around, though a bit distracted at times.

But he kept his creator company

on all those nights when they snored in front of the TV.

His God wasn’t much of a God, let’s face it.

But he was his.

And they grew old together.

The man and his God.

They grew feeble and his God forgot to do those things

that Gods are supposed to do at the end of life’s strange journey.

The man died.

His God looked down on him,

thought I’ll be damned!

And died too.

~ Bill Fewer

His God

Photo credit: lucasmalta from morguefile.com

After six days of diligent labour

he’d done it, he’d made his God.

He had a beer in the backyard to celebrate,

wiping the sweat from his brow,

looking up at the stars that he knew his God hadn’t made.

But that didn’t matter, his God was pretty much

about as perfect as he could make him.

Though there were disappointments.

His God spoke with a silly high pitched voice,

almost a falsetto,

instead of the rich, booming, shake ’em in their boots

voice he’d intended.

Also, his God was pretty slack in the miracles department.

He never really got around to actually doing anything.

And there were still wars and pestilence and plagues.

But then again, they seemed to happen

no matter whose God was pulling the reins.

He was a trifle clumsy, and if people gazed upon him at the supermarket

they tended to stare rudely, not fall down prostrate with awe.

They stared as if someone had just trudged in dog’s mess.

His God could be a bit crass at times,

an embarrassment in front of the opposite sex,

burping, boasting, cracking sick jokes,

gawking at bums and breasts.

He had his good side though.

He didn’t put black clouds of conscience in the man’s head.

His idea of hell was a barbecue ruined by rain.

He was nice to have around, though a bit distracted at times.

But he kept his creator company

on all those nights when they snored in front of the TV.

His God wasn’t much of a God, let’s face it.

But he was his.

And they grew old together.

The man and his God.

They grew feeble and his God forgot to do those things

that Gods are supposed to do at the end of life’s strange journey.

The man died.

His God looked down on him,

thought I’ll be damned!

And died too.

~ Bill Fewer