We traffic in ritual—pastimes (little quirks)—that seem to sustain us through the din of an uncertain world. There's one I've had for a while now, one that I hardly noticed I even maintained for so long. I like to secret favorite books, films, music; hide them—from myself actually. It's only natural to become fatigued with your most precious and treasured possessions after you have owned and sort of sunk yourself into them long enough. I feel as though they are a part of my psyche after a while, entities which have incubate in my subconscious and manifest themselves at convenient times.
Dane Cook refers to movies, specifically in theaters, as “cinematic adventures.” I don't know if he's the most qualified mind for philosophical treatise, but despite whatever you may think of the guy, I believe he has a very thoughtful point, circumspect it may be.
These three mediums share a common ability in that they can spirit, shall we call them users (the reader/audience/listener), to a seemingly separate place. One that is occupied by the both the present mind of the fan as well the artist's latent, or perhaps residual, imagination, becoming almost a transmitter and receiver of shared thought. They also have the common trait of creating stories which we can occupy our consciousness in, brief as it may seem, but still nonetheless powerful and moving.
It's for these reasons that we hold them so dear to our pathos: we feel 'connected' to the art we interact with, because, let's face it, without a receiver (a patron) these fields would have little contribution to society. They move us, and we in turn provide emotive feedback, creative synergy, like a crowd and musician, or even the speaker system which a band uses to amplify their sound. No art is created in a vacuum, it all is as many have said before me, “Built on top,” of much else. And what that else is obviously happens to occupy most of the bookstore, library and internet.
But this all leads to an earlier point. We all have our treasures, some obvious, others guarded in the quietest parts of thought, a place I think people are fond of calling a “guilty pleasure.” These artistic works are conduits, portals for us to escape and dwell in a more pleasurable state. But they do offer us more than just escapism—the best do more than just pander to our baser likings. They challenge and help us reflect on our beliefs, make us see concepts and truths that were maybe hidden from our common view. A very esoteric character who was basically a Catholic mystic named these unsung truisms “quotidian” to Nick Shay the hero of Don Delillo's Underworld. Objects or realities hidden before our everyday eyes which come to us in the simplest avenue but many times are only learned the “hard way.”
For this undying love of our artistic taste—whatever it happens to be—we eventually find ourselves burnt out, bored, fatigued. And that is when we often forsake those jewels to find a newer love.
But, like I said before, there's a ritual I keep, like an old ring or wristwatch. When I have not only moved on from the said novel, movie, album, but I have also found a new one, a new two or three, and have all but forgotten my forlorn old conspirator: I like to come back. And what better way than to stumble upon it...anywhere. The shelf of some stranger's house, a relative's coffee table, a strange frequency as you scramble through the spectrum of a long road trip. To be reintroduced to that ancient work, is like reuniting with an old conspirator, rekindling a lovely secret. It is reincarnation, to put it boldly, which can be spiritual or simply a personal growth—as incredulous you may be—or more to your pragmatic liking, like reliving what you already adore.
