mythos.

otis redding, early 1960's.

recently i had a discussion with someone about the idea of tragedy in the lives of those most highly regarded and emulated by younger generations; sam cooke, otis redding, nina simone, billie holiday, virginia woolfe, sylvia plath, hubert aquin. sadly the list goes on and on. we both remarked on the penchant that developing minds have for lives lived viscerally, or so it would seem through a historical lens. we construct mythic  narratives surrounding people who seemed to have shone so brightly that they could not be contained by life. life made up of such minutia as making beds, pointless arguments and taking the bus. always riddled with torrid tales of lovers, heroin, plane crashes and shot guns it seems impossible that anyone could live in such a way. i suppose to young minds it provides the possibility that we too can live extraordinary lives.

sylvia plath, late 1950's.

why does it always seem that these narratives only existed in and before the first three quarters of the twentieth century? and if they do appear in the contemporary collective memory, they seem to typically manifest themselves in cultures foreign to us; i.e. the distinctly orientalist obsession with places like india that has come about in western society in the last twenty years. is this because we cannot see the romance in our present times? does witnessing the creation of the myth dull its charm? will we too find our reddings and plaths? and if so, what do we gain from it besides a fleeting sense of mysticism and enchanting danger? i suppose that at a certain age, we must learn to separate, to quote a friend, "the truly magical from the crazy". wise words.