I find myself messing around in my head looking for the face of my reader, the many faced murky image in there who is the roaring crowd and caustic critic and hypocrite lecteur and who at this point probably doesn't actually exist, because how would you find your way here? To this remote tendril of the web? And I find myself trying to please you, to live up to you, and I wonder what damage that does to this work. Then I think of Layla Anwar and her blogs, how among her various states of rage are those directed toward her readers, her defiance of them - you and me - her insults and accusations, stools flung, fists shook, palms raised against us. Some of that will be assertions of fact she wishes to convey to us for our edification; and some are incantations against our influence over her style and content; over her power to express - or just to perceive, to call up from her depths - whatever she can. The guts that takes. Produces some volcanic writing.
I'm not writing to the people I'm mad at and I don't hate the people for whom I write. Not today anyway. I been mad at the world so long it feels like normal to me and I'm tired of it. Too much pettiness in it, too much delusion. As long as the anger is there, though, it's got to be accessible and sometimes let off its rope.
As a kid, defiance was the genie that kept me on my feet and in the fight, that kept me alive and intact. I am glad for its presence and proud it was mine. The situation required that since I lacked the weaponry - the very strength - to walk the world without it and survive. Now I can. There will be days, though, and reasons, to call on the old demon. And maybe against you, especially if you become real and independent of my imagination; who knows where this will go. So if I need to struggle upright and throw off some chains, shake off some grabbing hands, rip off badges, tear off helmets, wipe off grins, break some lacquered fingernails, kick some balls, claw some eyes, puncture some egos, shut some mouths, burn some cities, topple some statues, wipe my ass with a flag or two, whether it leaves me standing and laughing or clubbed to the dirt and kicked in the face, I can always reach down in there and pull up...defiance. Mon semblable, mon frere, mon enfant, ma soeur. Kid.
I'm not writing to the people I'm mad at and I don't hate the people for whom I write. Not today anyway. I been mad at the world so long it feels like normal to me and I'm tired of it. Too much pettiness in it, too much delusion. As long as the anger is there, though, it's got to be accessible and sometimes let off its rope.
As a kid, defiance was the genie that kept me on my feet and in the fight, that kept me alive and intact. I am glad for its presence and proud it was mine. The situation required that since I lacked the weaponry - the very strength - to walk the world without it and survive. Now I can. There will be days, though, and reasons, to call on the old demon. And maybe against you, especially if you become real and independent of my imagination; who knows where this will go. So if I need to struggle upright and throw off some chains, shake off some grabbing hands, rip off badges, tear off helmets, wipe off grins, break some lacquered fingernails, kick some balls, claw some eyes, puncture some egos, shut some mouths, burn some cities, topple some statues, wipe my ass with a flag or two, whether it leaves me standing and laughing or clubbed to the dirt and kicked in the face, I can always reach down in there and pull up...defiance. Mon semblable, mon frere, mon enfant, ma soeur. Kid.
