The Genius of the World
Everybody Has One
When I was growing up, I thought that a genius was an especially intelligent person.
Albert Einstein was a certifiable genius.
As was anyone else who was so “smart” that they could see things in way that fundamentally differed from lesser minds.
I carried this belief into college, where I was confronted with a different sense of the word.
We were reading a novel by Wilkie Collins called The Evil Genius.
It was here that I came to recognize the fact that it was less about “being a genius,” and more about “having a genius.”
One could have a genius which was benevolent, or one which was malevolent. (I would assume there are lots of other potential configurations, as well.)
I came to learn that the word was related to another word: “genie.”
And that our modern sense of the word was a pretty modern invention, not showing up until around 1580.
From there I began to think that it’s less helpful to think about whether or not one was a genius, and more about what kind of genius one has — that a sound practice might be to come to know one’s own genius and work with it through dialogue if it needs to change.
This last bit has been more of a late addition for me, as I’ve realized that I’m more or less a bad (read: sick or cognitively unwell) person, and that I need to be Better.
It entails that as I interact with others — perhaps particularly those with whom I disagree — I look for their genius and appreciate it as best I can.
It is when I see the genius in others that I begin to see great value not only in them, but also in myself.
We’re both similar organisms navigating the same thorny and serpentine circumstance.
And it is when appreciating my own unique genius that I can begin to strategize properly to begin to develop more positive traits.
From this I begin to see great value in all of my interactions, and to sense that spirit of goodness in all things.
How magnificently a stapler behaves. Even when made of cheap materials, the thought which went into its intention and design makes a simple item marvelous in assisting an important function.
There is a genius to a roller derby team, this collection of people who come out of their individual worlds to participate in a grand display of counter-cultural athleticism.
This empowers me to new language from every corner, inspiring me to have the mettle to venture into any prospective avenue.
I’m getting fanciful now, and Delight!
It’s a joy to be liberated by an idea, and to allow for that idea to germinate.
Because I’m revelling in this spirit (and, perhaps, because it’s Friday), I’m going to include a poem below.
It’s a poem by Arthur Rimbaud, translated by one of my favorite poets: John Ashbery. (I’m not including the French version here, although it’s worth looking at.)
Both men have been considered by many to be geniuses.
May it be of use to you in your own endeavors.
Affectedly, Aaron
Genie
Translated By John Ashbery
He is affection and the present since he opened the house to foaming winter and the hum of summer, he who purified drink and food, he who is the charm of fleeting places and the superhuman deliciousness of staying still. He is affection and the future, strength and love that we, standing amid rage and troubles, see passing in the storm-rent sky and on banners of ecstasy.
He is love, perfect and reinvented measurement, wonderful and unforeseen reason, and eternity: machine beloved for its fatal qualities. We have all experienced the terror of his yielding and of our own: O enjoyment of our health, surge of our faculties, egoistic affection and passion for him, he who loves us for his infinite life
And we remember him and he travels. . . And if the Adoration goes away, resounds, its promise resounds: “Away with those superstitions, those old bodies, those couples and those ages. It’s this age that has sunk!”
He won’t go away, nor descend from a heaven again, he won’t accomplish the redemption of women’s anger and the gaiety of men and of all that sin: for it is now accomplished, with him being, and being loved.
O his breaths, his heads, his racing; the terrible swiftness of the perfection of forms and of action.
O fecundity of the spirit and immensity of the universe!
His body! The dreamed-of release, the shattering of grace crossed with new violence!
The sight, the sight of him! all the ancient kneeling and suffering lifted in his wake.
His day! the abolition of all resonant and surging suffering in more intense music.
His footstep! migrations more vast than ancient invasions.
O him and us! pride more benevolent than wasted charities.
O world! and the clear song of new misfortunes!
He has known us all and loved us all. Let us, on this winter night, from cape to cape, from the tumultuous pole to the castle, from the crowd to the beach, from glance to glance, our strengths and feelings numb, learn to hail him and see him, and send him back, and under the tides and at the summit of snowy deserts, follow his seeing, his breathing, his body, his day.