Thursday, October 28, 2010

Why to write.

When you can do nothing else, write.

Writing is the profession of the unprofessional, the calling of those who couldn't hear God even if He retained any interest in them. Writing is what keeps the half-dead from being buried. Poetry is what lies beneath the wreckage of hope. Writing is the canary in the psychosexual coal mine. Writing is how the impotent throw a fuck into the rest of us. Writing is the demonic, barbaric yawp of the inarticulate, the angry scream of the animal that stupidly stepped into a leg trap that they figured wouldn't snap this time.

So, spare us your wit. Spare us your well-wrought verse, your clinical analyses of the ills of society, all rooted in a dream that things could be better, if only humans might recognize their true potential. You haven't lived long enough. May you have no hope before you get old. And then have hope for this reason- sometimes strangers surprise you. Sometimes women open their legs for you. Sometimes friends aren't embarassed by their friendship. Sometimes jokes are funny. Sometimes conversations are enough to live for. If you want utopia, that's where you'll find it. Not in politics or parties. Not in marriages or families. Not in anything enduring. We have no idea what we're doing. Nothing man-made is "sustainable". We do nothing higher than worship. And, if you must worship, then two minutes of human contact is surely worth a mass.

1 comment:

Holly said...

Amen, Brother.