As a precocious and humble yet haughty gymnast of 13 years I have long been inspired by the all-arounders, the daring men who choose to participate in all six gymnastics apparatus, and though they may not be stellar on all, their sheer devoting to the sport in taking on every varied apparatus at a highly professional level and performing well enough to internationally compete has always instilled a pride in me for what my fellow men can accomplish; a veneration was instilled in me for them, for their adversities were likely many, while their successes could be even more numerous.
But, as of late, I have been more inspired by a different sort of all-arounders -the everything men- those who are able not only to partake in a plethora of different activities, but those who harbor eclectic tastes and are well versed in every, or a great many, jargon, and who have never need uttered such words as “esoteric” or “unbeknownst” as they have never been in a such situation as not knowing in a matter. These are the Renaissance men, the great thinkers revered in god-like glory, as is Da Vinci (a first name is not even necessary to denote him), a painter, inventor, medical examiner, and thinker; Benjamin Franklin, a writer, statesman, inventor, diplomat, and thinker. Such men not merely dabble but are familiar with multiple facets of creation and influence and beauty the likes of which have hardly been rivalled as of late.
Even up to a more recent time nearly every educated and literate man, and even many, many women, kept their own journals of verse, or could breathe life into a scrap metal heap with their deft hands and the sweat of their fettered brows. A true dearth of creation has surfaced itself and it leaves a morose, wistful sense of longing in me for what could be of this world; if only there was more candid synthesis.
To create is a fundamental human desire. To leave a mark upon this world which we all call ours, and to so blindly assert this belief of ownership over the natural world, is our, at least perceived, God-given right. To write a poem in murky ink on the startlingly plain white page above your desk, in order to express a deeply felt feeling, be it longing for that girl you met briefly at a bar who shared in your taste of music, or regret for those things you yearned to but never said to your grandmother before she died asleep on her bed in the nursing home you always hated and swore you’d get her out of, one day.
To compose the beat out of desultory sound-bytes to that song you’ve had an idea for for months but haven’t been able to work into lyrical music yet, though you know it will have something to do with an ostracized outcast and that lonely child’s sad, friendless demeanor. To carve a plain block of wood into the most beautiful box you have never seen but always wanted to so that you may lay your daughter’s crayon-colored pictures into it, along with those tiny flowers and leaves that she so lovingly and painstakingly picked just for you. To sculpt a block of stone, an uninviting, cold, barren cube of rock, into a nearly breathing pulchritudinous bust of your dearest mother offering that gentle loving look you remember well from boyhood. To create is to impart yourself on the seemingly intractable world around you, to synthesize beyond all pre-conceived notions of what is to make the unknown and new knew, and to preserve what is inside of you by doing so.
I do sometimes envy those all-arounders, those classic eclectic men who create in multiple media, but then where would we be? The focus that the every-mundane-day gives to the masses, the wealth of experiences that we all can share, is much richer when man can harmonize, each man contributing a note to the diverse symphony of mankind, for we are each a single stitch of a single beautiful tapestry. Do you chose to lend your voice?
