Writing Beneath Gathering Clouds

I entered the New Year with every creative cell in my body abuzz, and I set out to write around an essay a week. As I went about my daily life, I saw connections and possibilities everywhere. I was sure that by March, I would have published at least six essays and completed the third draft of my novel.

On January 20, a cloud gathered around the country and my mind. I couldn't write. I gave myself a week, believing it would disperse and that I would be able to find my groove again. But the clouds thickened as the wrecking ball began its path through our country with executive orders delighting in their own cruelty and ignorance. Today is March 8th and this is my first attempt at an essay.

Photo by Robert Murray on Unsplash

In Norman Fucking Rockwell, Lana Del Ray croons, "Your poetry's bad, and you blame the news." I don't want to blame the news for my creative failure, but I'm struggling.

I don't want to write political essays here on Substack. My plan has been to keep my political efforts in the sphere of the ACLU and other spaces of the resistance. I've wanted to keep my creative work as an island of beauty and safety. But I fear that this is a privilege for those not living under the threat of authoritarianism.

In 2019, my husband and I went to Cuba to visit the country's most renowned artists' studios and listen to them speak about their processes. None of their work existed without a subversive political dimension. At first glance, it is an odd juxtaposition. How, in such an oppressed country, could government-funded art be so critical of the regime? Like many dictators, Castro heavily funded the arts, provided that artists' work served as propaganda for their countrymen and a totem of sophistication for the eyes of the world. However, also like most dictators Castro had no eye for nuance. He seemed to not understand the double meaning of the pieces any more than those who criticized the Super Bowl halftime show as incomprehensible.

Artists took the money and produced work of incredibly layered meaning. In the National Art Museum, a piece that exemplifies this portrays a vast crowd listening to Castro, which he saw in his simple-minded narcissism as an adulation. But look closer, and you see that the audience is painted in grey, muted colors, and the proportions of the man on stage are strange. This symbolizes the mind-numbing experience of listening to one of his excruciatingly long, rambling addresses.

During this trip, I thought how sad it was that the oppression of an authoritarian regime could embed itself so deeply into the people's consciousness. The work was incredible, but I couldn't wrap my mind around the idea that escaping the political was impossible even while channeling the eternal muses. I am starting to understand their experience in a way I never believed I could as an American.

I am still committed to writing about life beyond the terror encroaching on all sides of our society. I believe allowing ourselves to see above and beyond our current situation is vital. Perhaps it's possible to walk this line even as funding for the sciences is eroded, women's rights are chiseled away, the department of education is dismantled, our international alliances are broken in favor of aligning with our enemies, and our land is fleeced to circumvent the need for our trading partners. Perhaps.

My intention is for my next essay to be about something else. But I am coming to realize that no matter what I write about, whether it be travel, nature, art, or any aspect of the human experience, the all-too-real will loom and threaten the boundaries of my thoughts. If I deny this fact, my writing will become hollow and inauthentic, but if I allow the pressure to take over, my creative spirit will be flattened.

I don't know the answer for how to proceed with the right balance, but I am ready try.