Everybody Nose

Since I was a child, I always wanted to be a poet. But I stopped myself, as something about poetry seemed horribly janitorial. I’ve heard the platitudinal remarks about “natural aptitude”, “money-making ability”, and “prestige,” but I’ve always felt these to be untrustworthy guidelines upon which to build a life. One’s tolerance to nuance and tediousness are preferable litmus tests. Everyday, one's life could be consumed in their vocation. Could you scrub the toilets of poetry? With time, even the most seemingly inconsequential details become magnified and unignorable: placed upon raw meat, a single gnat becomes an elephant. What parts of your labor - which others find dreadfully tedious - do you find sickly fascinating? For me, it's clearest within the editing process.

I smooth my hands all over my statute of an essay, feeling for any inconsistencies in its surface. Then, after finding a small burr or lump, I correct it, only to incidentally create a pair of discrepant hills, unsavory curves, or otherwise ruin perspective. I repeat this process until my hands run smoothly over the whole thing. It’s only then that I step back and take another look. In a way, it’s an algorithmic, recursive process; I map the perimeter of a container by only listening to the sound of water made by my dropped pebbles. Literature enables me to discover a distinct reality with physics of my choosing. I sit there, thinking I’m only clipping hangnails, then, as I snip, a third eye, an arm, or nostril appears in some odd, rare pocket of the body. The process is made more difficult by our unique tolerances for “defects'': what I would consider a necessary asymmetry, another would consider insulting. This is good: unshared standards determine the aptitude of the artist. And the scientist, too, for that matter.

Sometimes the standards of the artist and the general population align. Often this happens only after the artist is dead. When this happens when the artist is alive, the artist usually becomes very wealthy. Many artists disregard their personal standards, aligning themselves with their perceived populist, in pursuit of wealth or fame. Overtime, the once-artist becomes better at this. They become undifferentiated. They become ritualistic; pledging hungry allegiance to their rain dances, all the while claiming it for their radishes. Really, the dance is for themselves. You’ve heard it before: “A certain nose is in fashion!” Meanwhile, nothing about the nose has changed in millennia. That is, with the exception of mine: upon hearing their superstitions, my nose crinkles, grows legs, and runs away.

Really, there’s nowhere for my nose to run. It seeks feeble refuge in galleries, museums, churches, libraries, and universities. Within each, my innocent nose finds an overwhelming majority of extremists engaged in caustic practice. Their halls are dotted with statuettes: cute from a distance, until, up close upon further inspection, they are found rough, bumpy, and worst: distinctly detailed with odd, nose-related features. A nose on the forehead. A nose with three nostrils. Two noses. Displayed nearby a gift-shop with nose-shaped mugs, nose apparel, and nose candles. A worker with a button on their apron that says “Who Nose!”.

What they don’t realize is that their real transformation is internal: they are trading their ability to create art for another. Even this ability changes with time. Lately, its name is advertising, or marketing, as a nickname. An old name was power. Another, prestige. Is it so controversial to suggest that we ought to aim internally? Why does it seem so? Amongst an amicable dinner, I can say, “I think we ought to be happy,” and my ears are kissed with the sound of clinking glass and camaraderie. But God forbid I comment on the mere presence of my guests' fake noses. I begin earnestly, slightly betraying myself, mentioning the smallest portion possible, sometimes even less, or making reference to some cousinly topic, (perhaps the femur), before their subconscious picks up the dissipating scent of the profound blasphemy I haven’t even yet referenced. Suddenly I’m a fish-stick in a room of mannerless kittens. And like the fish, I haven’t any arms or legs. But at least I have the right amount of nose, and at least it works, and at least it’s exactly where it's meant to be! So I let them feast upon me and cry out to me, and I remain cold yet calm. I’m no parent, but I believe these experiences train me in a similar patience. Now imagine if I revealed my true nature, my true thoughts.

Children are naturally honest. I know now, after some life, the rejection of my casual flirtation with communicable truth. Only the realities of intimacy can teach the gambit of a singular wet toe. How sad! Where have I gone? With what gusto? As a child my preferred method was to cannonball before thinking. As children, we are less aware of time-honored rhythms, and therefore, of time honored dances. We defer our expectations for innovation onto the youth. Ironic, they’re the ones with the least resources. It’s a sick fact, I think, but true: no prodigious child can be taken seriously. Maybe they’re a decent pianist and their music is worthy of dance, but within locked cabinets you’ll find stifled laughs at their pudgy faces.