“Does not play well with others,” is not something one desires to have hung about the shoulders, even if an admittedly fair assessment, for who sets out with this as a preferred character trait? Still, the historical mythos of the creative soul is rife with such personages, misunderstood and angry, yet somehow able to touch upon an aspect of their world that eventually is seen for what it is by the unwashed and elite alike. The artist as sacrificial fortune teller and martyr for the terrible beauty.
“Plays well with others,” is the dream of every doting sweet mother unversed in game theory. It’s a competitive world out there, and listening carefully will alert one to how ingrained that reality is among even the most congenial. Overheard after introductions of names and titles have been made, which clearly established the chain of command: ”I’m their boss,” she said as if she needed reminding of her own position even while amongst peers.
It must be extremely wearing to shoehorn one’s established persona into a fashionable context, as if one’s name should never be uttered by a historian, unless, of course, it is in proximity to words like pivotal or seminal, assuring publication sometime after one has perished. This is highly unlikely for the typical academic, so every glass slipper must be given a try… because you never know.
That fear of mootness is the primary lesson passed down through MFA programs, and all the glad-handing and air-hugs of comrades-in-arms do little to alleviate the dread as one surreptitiously pats down the other for weapons.
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