Lapidary Practice in Weathered Conditions (The River Runs Dry)

I think that it is, from my writing here, quite possible to believe that I am someone cocky, self-assured, and confident. One may go so far as to imagine the image of me, the author, astride with swelled chest and poised to devour the innocent with my glistening teeth. If one does not go that far . . . Then, well, I am slightly disappointed — mostly, in my own hyperbole — yet, I understand. One’s capacity for imagination may not be as expansive as my own . . .
See? There, that last sentence is exactly what I mean. I write things like that all the time, and it has this tendency to sound so . . . Arrogant, I suppose. I believe that it is the curse of a writer — any writer — to seem that way; no matter the true case, due to his (or her) grasp of language and breadth of diction, the proverbial writer is doomed to appear smug. It’s an interesting phenomenon that I have noticed.
There is a noted and obvious duality to my nature, as a human being; for I am an aritst, and I am writer. These are two distinct archetypes of person, with individually separated characteristics that practically exclude one another, in a mutual fashion of sorts. After years — and years, and years — of self-examination, I have boiled my two halves to just that, though: writer, and artist.
The Writer, he has passion for expression, but through precision and language. These are two very concrete and sedimentary qualities, with intentional delimitation of ambiguous traits. All things extraneous are deleterious to the Writer; he is a deliberate and careful artisan of words, so meticulous in selection the right turning of a phrase that it can wrack the nerves, sundering one’s sanity in the process. Have I said what I meant to communicate just right? Is my sentiment correctly conveyed to the reader? All in all, the Writer is the side of me that carefully considers and calculates matters — the part that writers (obviously), but also programs and solves equations, eschews problematic scenarios with quick rectifications.
Not to say that there is nothing ambiguous to the Writer, but everything that is interpretable and grey lies between the lines.
Then, you have the Artist; full of passion, emotion, sensuality, empathy, the Artist strives for expression through pictorial depictions, by means beyond language and words that reside in a universal perceptivity. To paint, to draw, to print, to speak, to compose poetry . . . Those are the concerns of the Artist, and it all for an ends which is never entirely known to himself. There is an accidental quality to the Artist, he does what he does and only when it is complete does he pause for contemplation of the product. Artistry is instantaneous, over in the blink of an eye, everything that follows the initiation of his inspiration is mere fallout from the combustion. The Artist within me leads me to draw, to listen to music, to write poetry, to indulge in life’s pleasures.
And, again, it is not for me to say that there is nothing technical or premeditated about the Artist, but those are secondary to the process.
What is intriguing is the intrinsic weaving between the two natures that brings forth a third outcome, a combined resultant that is new and unique. But, I have deviated drastically from what I originally intended to write about here, haven’t I?
Mostly, I wanted to say (again, the Writer in me always has something to communicate) is that you can be rest assured that I am rather doubtful of myself. My identity is rather liquid, at times, and can be thrust into reexamination more often than I sometimes like. I doubt myself enough, trust me.
But, at the same time, what I write here is absolutely true for the point in time in which it is relevant. What I put down here is concretely what I think at the time in question, and I do not possess a trickle of remorse for anything I’ve ever written; changed my outlook, later? Sure, yes, that happens, it is bound to occur to anyone that a minutiae of a previous thought — philosophy, theory, hypothesis, conclusion, or denouement — was wrong. This all goes back to the Writer, the one who revises and edits and censors himself to death.
However, of course, there is the Artist; he who has a sensation or momentary flicker of an idea to encapsulate in history. There is no shame to the Artist for what he has done, nor is there any shame in me for what I have ever written, said, or done. I am not disgraced by my actions — disgrace is directly derived from concern for others and their standards. I don’t live by the standards of any one other than myself . . . And, see? Once more, it is so very simple to come across as arrogant and self-assured.
The entirety of it all can be contributed to the Whole of me, I suppose, that third persona which is both Artist and Writer. How I am both self-revising and self-confident, doubting but reasoning . . . All things go forward; nothing is stationary; time may (or may not) be an illusion, but the cyclic nature of existence is indelible, impervious; wash, rinse, repeat, but a shower has to be finite, has to conclude and have an ending. It is the Artist that finishes, the Writer that commences . . . Precision is the accuracy of repeated experimentation, thus a purely precise exercise can rationally last forever; but accuracy is the measurement of error to what is an accepted result. Knowledge of when to let the dust settle can be more important than how thoroughly with which you kicked the dust up to start.
Heh, only I can load up a word processor to write something that is a proclamation of my humility and fallibility, then end with a veritable lecture on how to live correctly. Then again, they say the first sign of insanity is talking to yourself, and I have never denied being a touch Mad.

Adios.