In a play I never finished writing the main character returns to their family home while everyone is away at Easter church service. They had been estranged for several years and so there is much exclamation and excitement when the family gets home from worship to find their long-lost kin relaxing in an easy chair in the living room. In another play that I have not yet never finished writing, the inciting incident takes place on Easter Sunday and involves supernatural resurrections.
Everyone loves a good theme.
Each day that I choose to think deeply about the subject the angrier I find myself getting at the idea that anything can ever really truly be plagiarized. Our eccentric abilities of mimicism and our insistence on mysticism leave us all unoriginal shells screaming about what spectacular individuals we assume we are. Most of the time we even seem to chant unironically in unison, staking the same solipsistic claims as everyone else. Futile. Impossible. Muck.
We cannot own the art we create any more than we can own the wind.
Once it is created it belongs to the world. That’s what makes it art, stupid.
Yes, I think I just invented the word, “mimicism”.
But you knew what it meant didn’t you?
Anyway, cute dogs, eh?