Not the fraudulent, step-on-people, build enormous walls arrogance. The arrogance of the poet or of the child, who says, “Look,” and it’s something you’ve never seen or something you’ve seen a hundred times, but, “Look,” and the tone, the inquisitive pride of the discoverer makes it new and glorious. That’s what you do, what we do, arrogant creators. Make glorious new wonders out of found and scavenged objects, loot free cycle for inspiration, turn back again to our work the way the monk turns to prayer and creates God. Keep the conversation going.
Our arrogance is Dumbo’s feather, something to believe in so we can fly because the fact of the matter is: we can fly. Our faults (the big ears, the introvert’s desire for quiet, the dancer’s perpetually moving feet) are our tools, our secret sauce, our abracadabra. Your stubborn refusal to stop letting sentences float up into your mind in the middle of the night.
My god, you are beautiful. I want to see you strut, an extravagant thank you to the universe that created you and created you to create. I want to hear you brag–on the page, in the stream of words you put down, the people you draw, the way you stage them so their emotions become ours–arms crossed, hips cocked, one eye sliding stage left for what’s coming. Oh how we need to cry, on a day like this. Oh, how we need to laugh. So be arrogant, go ahead, I dare you. Walk through the world like you know it aches for your act, your insight, your particular take on it. Let it drink milk from your hand.